


VII: you said I could have anything I wanted (but I just couldn’t say it out loud)

by stormcoming



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Eliot Waugh, Bottom Quentin Coldwater, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Minor OC Death (Offscreen), Oral Sex, References to Canonical Past Abuse (Eliot Waugh's shitty childhood), References to Canonical Past Sexual Assault (Mike McCormick / Martin Chatwin), Switching, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Top Eliot Waugh, Top Quentin Coldwater, Undernegotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28058679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormcoming/pseuds/stormcoming
Summary: “Hey, um. Can we—” Quentin just about manages to stop the words ‘can we talk’ from leaving his mouth, pivoting to a sort of high-pitched squawk and then landing regrettably on, “So I really love everything we do, you know—in bed.” He winces. It isn’t the worst thing he could’ve said, but definitely could’ve gone smoother and it’s far from the opener he’d planned.“I just, uh, wanted to let you know that…” Ugh. All of the websites said to keep things flirty and light-hearted, something Quentinknowshe’s incapable of, so what is hedoing?Quentin’s always found talking about sex pretty fucking awkward, even though he and Eliot have been together for nearly a decade. When he enlists the help of a sex magic spell, it takes their relationship to some unexpected places.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 35
Kudos: 109
Collections: Seven Times Quentin gave Eliot that Good Dick





	VII: you said I could have anything I wanted (but I just couldn’t say it out loud)

**Author's Note:**

> A million thank yous to redtoblack for alpha discussions and dealing with my last-minute panics, TheAudity for cheering and the amazing art, akisazame for betaing, and Rubick for organising this awesome collection <3

  


All the websites say to approach your partner outside the bedroom, use ‘I’ statements and keep things positive. Quentin’s decided that after dinner seems like the appropriate time. It’s far enough from bedtime to be safe, slotted nicely into the small window before they end up putting Netflix on and cuddling. Before Quentin loses his nerve. If he hasn’t already. 

He rubs at his eyes. The overhead light in the kitchen is much too bright. They’ve lived in the apartment for about five years now, which is plenty of time for Quentin to have done something about it, but naturally he’s never bothered. 

Across the table, Eliot’s distracted by something on his phone. He takes a sip of the fancy sparkling water that Quentin thinks tastes worse than garbage, but which Eliot likes to drink from a delicate gold-rimmed cocktail glass, the one Quentin’s mended several times over the years. 

Quentin takes a moment to admire him unobserved. His curls tucked behind his ears, haphazard, and the dark circles beneath his eyes that somehow only make him look more beautiful. The loose tie and open collar revealing the slender curves of his clavicles and reminding him of all the times he’s dragged his mouth over the skin there, how Eliot will sometimes go soft and loose when his teeth graze the bone, his head tipped back and his hands buried in Quentin’s hair. 

Quentin presses his thumb against the edge of the table, nails scratching over the ridges in the wood. If Eliot starts clearing the plates, that’s it, he’ll have to work up to it all over again tomorrow. Except Eliot’s got that work thing tomorrow, so it’d be the next day—when Quentin’s meeting Julia for their weekly-ish wine and film night—and then it’s Friday, and that’s, no, it won’t work. He can’t explain why, okay? The websites say it has to happen outside of the bedroom, so for some reason it seems logical that it has to happen outside of the weekend too. It makes sense, kind of, that those three days could be ruined by any number of things he might hope to say out loud. 

He’s rehearsed what he plans to say about a hundred times, so of course precisely none of his carefully plotted scripts are what comes out in the moment.

“Hey, um. Can we—” Quentin just about manages to stop the words ‘can we talk’ from leaving his mouth, pivoting to a sort of high-pitched squawk and then landing regrettably on, “So I really love everything we do, you know—in bed.” He winces. It isn’t the worst thing he could’ve said, but definitely could’ve gone smoother and it’s far from the opener he’d planned. Typical, really. 

Eliot gives him a strange look. “Well, of course you do,” he says, because, well, of course he does. “So why does it feel like there’s a ‘but’ coming?”

“There isn’t,” Quentin says, a little too quickly. “Definitely not. No, um. No buts here.” A nervous laugh skitters out of him. He clears his throat, but it feels like there's something stuck there. “I just, uh, wanted to let you know that…”

Ugh. All of the websites also said to keep things flirty and light-hearted, something Quentin _knows_ he’s incapable of, so what is he _doing_?

“I had an idea, that’s all,” he says, gaze dropping to Eliot’s hands, so he doesn’t have to see whatever’s going on with his face right now. Quentin’s pretty sure he couldn’t sound less flirty or light-hearted if he tried.

“Oh yeah?” Eliot leans back in his seat. There’s a note of suspicion in his voice—likely because Quentin’s behaving as though he’s on his way to a fucking funeral—but he’s keeping it just the right side of playful, which is not surprising, since fun and flirty is one of Eliot’s default modes. “I like the sound of that. What’s on your mind, baby?”

“You know, it’s been a while since we…” Quentin grimaces. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to make that mental list titled ‘Things NOT to say’, because really, he should’ve known that when under pressure, those would be the only things left rattling around in his brain. “I thought we could… try something new, maybe.”

Eliot looks puzzled for a brief flash, then laughs a little too brightly. “Sorry,” he says, in his most withering tone, “but are you asking me if I want to _spice up our sex life_?”

Yes? Kind of? Quentin had, of course, been desperately trying to avoid precisely those words. The very idea of it is just… embarrassingly banal. They’re not the kind of couple who needs _spice_ , thank you very much. (Or, they weren’t.) But then, Quentin supposes, nobody sets out to be the sort of couple whose sex life, while fulfilling in many ways, has ended up in… a rut. There. He’s admitted it. They’re in a rut. Or maybe it’s just Quentin who feels stuck; perhaps Eliot is totally fine with their sex life. He suspects that’s not the case, though he doesn’t really know for sure. That’s the whole point right there, isn’t it? They don’t talk about this shit anymore, had never really gotten the hang of it, in all honesty.

“ _No_ ,” says Quentin, staring resolutely at the floor, which could probably do with a cleaning charm. There's something brown and claggy stuck to the bottom of one of the cupboards. He wonders how long it's been there. “I’m trying to _communicate_ with you.”

Oh god. That’s worse, if anything. He’s doing this all wrong, definitely, but also, he’d had his doubts from the start. Yes, he’d made sure to look at queer blogs and he’d found a couple of articles specifically about men. But even the language on these sites is kind of… cringy. The situation is not helped by the fact that Quentin finds pretty much everything about this eternally cringy, so he’d found it a little hard to judge what would sound right coming out of his mouth. ‘It makes me feel so good when…’ is all well and good as a conversation starter, except for the fact that Quentin can’t imagine a real person actually saying it. But then, what the fuck would he know about what a real person might say?

‘I think it would be so intense and intimate…’ is a severely cringe-inducing sentence on its own. Filling in the blank with ‘if you would slap me across the face while you’re fucking me raw’ is just mortifying. 

So, yeah. There’s only so far his research can take him. He doesn’t have to look up to know that Eliot’s rolling his eyes, but he risks a glance at him anyway. Yup, good, that’s confirmed. His whole body is stiff with anxiety, but Quentin gamely persists, fumbling in his hoodie pocket for a few sheets of hastily folded paper. He thrusts them in Eliot’s direction, trying to ignore the wild surge of nausea in his stomach. “I, uh. Found this.”

Waiting for him to read it is excruciating. Quentin picks at his cuticles while Eliot leafs through the pages, barely skimming them, his lip curling in disdain. “God, Q. You do know that nobody actually uses these things?”

A hot wave of shame crashes into him. In the moment, all he can think is that of course he’s a fucking idiot, and of course nobody uses dumb checklists to figure out what they want in bed. Except—well. Given the sheer multitude of blogs and articles on the subject, _someone_ out there must be using these dumb checklists. And they’re probably having a shit ton of healthy communication about all the ‘intense and intimate’ sex they’re having. Not that Quentin’s jealous, or anything.

Later, when the shame has curled up into a tight knot in the pit of his stomach and he’s had a chance to process the conversation, it’ll be obvious that Eliot had, consciously or not, thrown up a defence mechanism that was designed precisely to make Quentin feel like an idiot and just drop the whole thing. And that’s exactly what he’d nearly done. It’ll be obvious, too, that Eliot didn’t really mean anything by his touchy comments. Trouble is, Eliot will pull the trigger at a moment’s notice if he thinks it’ll protect him from ever having to feel a fucking feeling. And that’s what hurts the most, being the collateral damage in Eliot’s dance of emotional unavailability, because he doesn’t give a shit if Quentin gets caught in the crossfire.

So that’s why, in the moment, Quentin turns in on himself. He tries for a joke to lighten the tension, mumbling with his hand over his mouth, “Well, we can be queer pioneers.” It’s pretty weak, though, since it’s not really a joke, and therefore doesn’t quite land. His head hangs forward, a curtain of hair cutting across his line of sight. “Sorry. We don’t have to. I’m not—just forget it, okay?”

Stomach in knots, Quentin reaches for the papers, but Eliot holds them out of his grasp, studying the final page intently. “Wait, what’s this spell?” he asks. Quentin is instantly and perversely repelled by his sudden curiosity; it’s the last thing he wants to talk about now, but he’s crammed full of shame and panic and it _is_ some really fascinating magic, so Quentin finds he can’t help himself.

“It’s actually kind of cool? Because, right, obviously normally you’d just fill it out by hand. But that relies on people being, like, emotionally and, um, sexually self-aware.” He darts a quick side-eye at Eliot, who doesn’t say anything but is watching Quentin with obvious interest now. “So anyway, the spell kind of… bypasses all the potential, I dunno—it said on the website about people finding it useful for, um. Articulating stuff. They didn’t have to say what they were into, cause the magic did it for them.”

“Mm, that doesn’t sound invasive at all,” Eliot says lightly.

“Yeah, I guess, maybe.” Quentin hadn’t really thought of it that way, but Eliot’s probably right. It’s a bit much. Of course it is. It’s just—he’s struggling to get his point across, heart sinking lower and lower the longer he speaks. “I dunno? I liked the sound of it.” He angles his knees away from Eliot, turning his head almost without meaning to, as though it would be somehow possible to escape the judgement in his eyes. “Look, I know you don’t exactly have trouble expressing yourself when it comes to… things like this.” Jesus Christ, he’s thirty-fucking-three and stumbling over the word _sex_ with his actual long-term partner whom he regularly fucks. This is ridiculous. “Sex,” Quentin says, mainly to prove that he can. “It’s harder for me to talk about?”

“I know that,” Eliot says with a touch of impatience that pulls at something lodged deep in Quentin’s chest. “That’s been long-established—I don’t need you to talk about it, or—”

“Maybe _I_ want to,” Quentin interrupts, a prickle of heat erupting over his neck. Fuck, this was such a terrible idea. He wishes he’d never brought it up, honestly, but for some reason he barrels onwards. “Maybe I want to… I don’t know. Be able to talk about…stuff.” Wow, great job. Very articulate, as always. Quentin lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

“Hey,” Eliot says, a little more softly. Quentin’s shoulders are stiff with tension, and Eliot’s touch, though surprisingly gentle, only makes him feel more rigid. “Q…” He looks caught somewhere between apologetic and defensive. Quentin definitely hadn’t set out to put that expression on his face. See, this is why Quentin doesn’t talk about sex. Anymore. After all, they used to—even if Quentin had never exactly excelled at it.

“I just thought it’d be a good way to… get started. There are different levels you can set the spell—it doesn’t have to be—”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Eliot says, withdrawing his hand and turning back to the etudes and equations Quentin had scribbled earlier. Maybe he’s imagining it, but Eliot looks relieved to have something else to focus on, hands drawing absent patterns in the air as he runs through a couple of the tuts. “This is really complex spellwork. It’s almost like secrets magic.”

“It is,” Quentin says. “Well, it’s a combination. Mostly a psychic spell, with secrets magic as the foundation. And then a layer of. Sex magic. Deepest, uh, desires. That sort of thing.”

Eliot gives him an appraising look. “Is there something specific in mind you want to do? Because I’m up for exploring… I don’t know. Whatever’s got you all worked up.” Although not entirely departed, his prickly defensiveness has certainly dropped a few notches, and much sooner than Quentin had anticipated. He can never tell with Eliot; sometimes he’ll sulk for days over a stray comment that’s triggered his insecurities or put him on guard, and other times he’ll simply apologise and move on within minutes. “Q?”

Right, Eliot asked him a question. “No?” Quentin tries, not sure if he’s actually telling the truth or not. “I don’t know? I just thought, I want to be able to—” He breaks off, decades of anxious frustration curdling in his gut. Though he really ought to have shed these kinds of aspirations long ago, Quentin is apparently still the same twitchy kid who desperately wants to be cool and chill and sexy. But he’s just fucking not. “It’s kind of hard,” is what he ends on, sitting there, miserably, waiting for Eliot to speak. Isn’t that what he always does? Hadn’t Quentin once spent a lifetime waiting for Eliot to fill in his gaps and tell him what his secrets were? And Eliot always had, was the thing. But it’s different in this timeline, the life that actually belongs to them. Quentin has to figure out his own shit. 

“Right. _This_ is the thing you want,” Eliot says slowly, gesturing at the spell. Quentin tries very hard not to wilt under the piercing scrutiny. “Well, okay. I guess it can’t hurt. I want—” His mouth twists. “Q, you know I love you, right?”

“Um, yeah.” Quentin grins. “ You tell me like a hundred times a day.”

“I do not,” says Eliot, even though he definitely does. “But—you do _know_?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says softly. “Of course I do. This isn’t—it’s not about that. I’m like—I don’t know what I want or how to talk about it. I just thought this might help. Sorry if it’s like, dorky, or whatever.”

Eliot smiles indulgently. “Oh, it’s extremely dorky. The spellwork is certainly interesting though. We should take our time, look over it properly.” He hesitates. “Look, I know you think—”

“What?”

Rolling his eyes at himself, Eliot says, “You’re not the only one who has trouble expressing things sometimes, okay?”

“Okay,” says Quentin, stomach clenched tight with his own self-consciousness, not yet able to contemplate the kinds of things Eliot might have difficulty saying.

“Tomorrow night then? I’m meeting Margo soon. And we should probably, I dunno, have space to think about it. I bet that’s what all your internet research says, hm?”

Quentin’s cheeks heat. “Yes, actually. It does. I thought you had that work thing tomorrow?”

“Oh shit, yeah. Well, ah—”

“It’ll have to be Friday,” Quentin interrupts. 

“All right then.” He drops a kiss on Quentin’s forehead. “Friday it is. I’ll tell Margo you said hi.”

Oh god, Eliot is definitely going to tell Margo every last detail about this. Quentin groans inwardly. Still, now the conversation is over, he does feel better. Gut-clenchingly nervous about Friday, but. Better. It’ll be worth the embarrassment. Probably. Hopefully.

*

“Ready?” Quentin asks, though he is not ready at all. The question of Eliot’s readiness remains a mystery. His nod is cool and calm, projecting an air of unaffected boredom—a gesture which could be taken at face value, though he knows that the more aloof Eliot appears, the more he’s putting up a front. Fuck, Quentin’s hands are sweating. He presses them into his jeans. See, what’s irritating, too, is that knowing the mask is in place doesn’t diminish its effects. Quentin can see right through him, has done for years now—and yet it works on him every time.

After reading the instructions, they’ve each decided on different levels—there are three to choose from. The first is pretty basic; it’ll check the boxes, ‘yes’, ‘no’ or ‘maybe’ to indicate any experiences with an activity, a 0–5 scale of desire to try it, and whether the respondent has a preference for giving, receiving, or both. The second level is what Eliot’s gone for, which will create an extra column giving a brief explanation about experiences he’s had or would like to have with a particular activity. The example given is that, in addition to checking the box for humiliation, the spell will elaborate on any specific desires, for instance, a respondent who’d like to be verbally insulted, or to slap their partner. Quentin’s going all in. Casting level three will enable the spell to access his internal sexual circumstances, which, the guide emphasises, are not fixed. Instead, the magic will simply offer a snapshot of his sexuality at the moment the spell is activated.

They loop a thin red ribbon around each other’s left wrist before they cast. Quentin goes first, stumbling slightly over his Greek. Once the incantation is spoken, the checklists are sealed into envelopes and left for an hour, which Quentin spends tugging absently at his ribbon and chewing on his lip. He can barely concentrate, so it’s a good thing he’s seen this episode of _Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt_ about three times already.

Two episodes later, the inside of Quentin’s mouth is bleeding and the ribbon unfurls from Eliot’s wrist. Quentin’s takes longer, with every passing minute sending a sliver of anxiety spiking through his chest.

He feels pretty stupid about it all. When they’d first gotten together, Quentin remembers being wild with desire for one another, and yeah, he embarrassed easily, but not like this. He doesn’t quite know what happened, only that Quentin’s always found it awkward to actually talk about the things they do together and articulate what he likes in bed, and so, he simply hasn’t. Maybe it’s time to give therapy a try again, though the thought of discussing anything remotely sexual with a therapist is physically repulsive, making his chest tighten with preemptive resistance. It’d be a novelty, that’s all, to feel good about the things he wants, and not all weird and ashamed of even having desires in the first place.

Eliot quirks an eyebrow at him. He’s put eyeliner on for the occasion, and a dark floral button down. Quentin swallows, trying to appear chill as he’s suddenly overcome with how fucking hot his boyfriend is. It’s making him actually a little crazy, which is a good reminder of why he started this whole thing to begin with.

“Story time,” Eliot says, with another of his unaffected grins—really, he ought to trademark them. “What are all those filthy fantasies you’ve got rattling around in that big brain of yours, mm?” He grabs both envelopes from the coffee table, and Quentin jerks out of his seat in panic.

“Whoa, what are you—?”

“Shit, Q.” Eliot holds his hands up in contrition. “Sorry, look—I wasn’t gonna open yours. Here.”

“Oh.” Quentin takes the envelope, heart pounding. A hot swell of nausea thrums in his stomach and he thinks, not for the first time, that maybe this has all been a tremendously bad idea.

“You okay?” The little crease in Eliot’s brow is somehow worse than his irreverence would’ve been.

“Yeah,” Quentin manages, though he doubts it’s convincing. Jesus, isn’t this supposed to be fun? And possibly sexy? Yet Quentin has perhaps never felt less fun or sexy than he does right now. Because this was a _bad idea_. One that he’s pretty sure Eliot would let him back out of. But if he does that— fuck. He’s _not_ going to back out. Quentin takes a deep and almost dizzying breath. “Look, I get that this isn’t like, a super sexy thing to say, but I’m pretty fucking nervous, okay? I figure it’s better to just own it at this point. I mean, you know me. And you’re still here. So let’s just do this.”

“Q—”

Quentin shakes his head, rolling his eyes at himself. He’s being ridiculous. “Story time, right?”

Eliot flashes him a reassuring smile. They open their envelopes at the same time, while Quentin tries not to freak out about the fact that his seems to be a lot thicker than Eliot’s. Probably because he’s a repressed little cave goblin, and every remotely dirty thought he’s ever had has just been plucked from his brain and splattered onto the page. Jesus. Quentin does his best to get the fuck over himself, taking a breath as he scans the first page. Okay, it’s going to be okay. There aren’t any real surprises here, he thinks wryly. Even though the spell has clearly rifled quite comprehensively through the deepest, darkest crevices of his brain. Dry-mouthed, Quentin flips the page. Ah. There it is. The checklist has given name to the amorphous scramble of hazy images and emotions that’ve been drifting around the edges of his consciousness for… a while. And he’s not sure how Eliot will react. Eliot would never laugh at him—not over something like this. Or, you know. He might. It’s not easy to tell, with Eliot, what might smash up against the brick wall of his insecurities only to be batted back with a smirk or even outright mirth, or else some approximation of it. But then, Eliot’s rare moments of earnestness are perhaps even harder to take than his condescension. 

Something inside him flinches at the memory of Eliot’s disdain when he first brought up the spell. At least he doesn’t have to find the words or actually say them out loud, which, if he’s honest with himself—and it’s about time, really—has perhaps unconsciously been the entire point of this exercise. He nods absently. It’s time to get this over with. Oddly, he feels almost calm—or, well. Not exactly. Perhaps resigned is a better word. Sure, that works. Quentin’s resigned to Eliot finding out and probably not outright laughing at him? But Quentin could hardly blame him if he did. Let’s be real, the idea is pretty laughable. He reminds himself that it’s not a total waste, there are a couple of other things on the list he reckons Eliot might be into, and plenty more that will hopefully make a comeback. When Quentin finally shakes free from his ruminating, he finds that Eliot has gone curiously red and is suddenly far more preoccupied with discovering the source of his embarrassment.

Smooth as ever, Quentin says, “Um, shall we—?”

To his surprise, Eliot is quite visibly hesitant, opening his mouth and then closing it again, not quite looking at Quentin as he does.

“Or we can read out our own?” Quentin says in a strangled voice. Mm, keeping it sexy, Coldwater. Also, why did he just offer to do the very thing he’d concocted this elaborate plan in order to avoid?

Thankfully, Eliot shoves his checklist in Quentin’s lap before he can dig himself any deeper. Heart clamouring, he hands Eliot his paper and then stares at him. Eliot’s mouth is slightly open while he reads and he’s just like, so outrageously attractive that it almost makes Quentin’s brain shut down. Almost. And Quentin trusts him. Obviously. He does. It’s just—he doesn’t know what. It’s more him that’s the problem, than Eliot. He just doesn’t know how to talk about this shit. But then, Eliot isn’t always the easiest person to talk to.

The wolfish grin spreading over his face isn’t doing much to put Quentin’s mind at rest.

“Okay, this is actually incredibly detailed,” Eliot says without looking up. “So, shall I just… get started?”

“Sure,” Quentin squeaks, clearing his throat. Thirty-fucking-three. Ugh.

“Well, the standard stuff is all pretty… standard,” he says. “Can safely say we’re both into fucking and getting fucked. Huh, I think we both prefer giving when it comes to sucking dicks and eating ass—you scored higher though, naturally. And you _are_ a natural, baby,” he says, going full season one Eliot in his flirtatious delivery before carrying on in his normal voice. “Okay, deep throating is a top feature, I see. No surprises there.” Eliot smirks and Quentin thinks that it really shouldn’t turn him on as much as it does. 

“Ah, shame you haven’t been harbouring a secret necrophilia kink,” he says. “I was really hoping we’d match on that one.”

Quentin rolls his eyes. “I mean, no kink shaming and all. But I can’t say I’m sorry to disappoint there.”

And then—oh. Eliot’s about to turn the page and Quentin can’t stop himself from bursting out, “Look, um, it’s—” The words evaporate in his throat. Because as per fucking usual, he doesn’t know what to say. He exhales slowly. It’s best to get this over with.

Eliot shifts closer, presses a hand to Quentin’s knee. “What’s got you all worked up, hm?” He frowns. “This is all stuff that we…” His eyes dart as he scans the page before meeting Quentin’s gaze. “I get that maybe we’ve gotten a little off-track lately,” he says, palm now rubbing very distracting circles over his inner thigh, “but we can, you know, make some time. Edging, orgasm denial, bondage—all of this stuff, I’ve, uh, missed it too.”

Quentin can feel himself going bright red, skin flushed and overheated as his dick begins to take interest in the proceedings. Jesus Christ. He’s going to have to say it. “Yes, well—”

Eliot’s still scanning the first page. “I mean, there’s nothing on here we don’t do already, right? Okay maybe not _all_ of it,” he says, the grin snapping into place. “I’m very happy to—oh.”

Ah. He’s turned the page, and holy fuck, Quentin’s heart is surely about to explode right out of his chest. He sort of wishes it would, surely it’d be less agonising than waiting for Eliot to say whatever he's going to—

“ _Oh_ ,” Eliot says again, tone edged with something Quentin can’t decipher. “Now I get it. So, this is all stuff you wanna do to me, huh? And _this_ is interesting. Says right here that Quentin Coldwater’s innermost desires include dominating his partner—cute by the way, that you put your full name on this thing.” He looks sharply at Quentin through his lashes, a dangerous smile curving his lips. “You should read my list now. Page two.”

With no small amount of trepidation rattling his ribs, Quentin does.

“Oh,” he says, in a quiet echo of Eliot. “You want to—really?”

Eliot nods. “Really.” Then, both his gaze and his voice lower enticingly, “That can’t be such a surprise, surely.”

“I didn’t think you were into that kind of thing anymore. That’s partly why I never brought it up. That and—well.” Quentin digs his nails into his palms. “I’m not exactly the type, am I?”

“Takes all kinds, sweetheart.” Eliot’s tone while not exactly honey-smooth has lost that prickly edge, the one that still cuts Quentin open if he’s not careful. “You’d be surprised how many of the shy ones can turn steely-eyed when the mood strikes. I guess I didn’t think you were interested, but—” his eyes darken. “I see it.”

“Really?” Quentin’s laugh is brittle-sharp, nervous. “I don’t think I’ll be… any good at it. I mean—I just. I’m not gonna be like you are. You’re _really_ good at it, and I’m not exactly—”

“Hey, hey.” Eliot closes the rest of the gap between them, putting one arm around Quentin, the other cradling his jaw. “You don’t have to be anything you’re not.” His thumb strokes over Quentin’s stubble. “It’s more about… accessing something. If that spell found it, then it’s definitely in there somewhere.” Quentin’s not sure about that, but Eliot would probably know better than he would. “And there are tons of ways to go about that kind of power exchange.” His hand slides down, thumb rubbing lightly over Quentin’s collarbone and making his breath hitch. There’s a magnetic charge in the air as Eliot drags his fingers over Quentin’s chest. “Is this something you’ve been thinking about?” 

“I don’t know?” Quentin says, voice cracking embarrassingly. “Not consciously, like a, um, specific fantasy or anything. And you know, I want—other things, too. Like how we usually do… stuff.”

“Mm, I saw,” Eliot says, light and teasing, tracing along the curve of Quentin’s neck. “Lots of fun activities to explore. Maybe we pick you out a lovely collar—something for me to grab onto while I’m fucking you.” A small, aching sound pushes out of him as Eliot’s hand splays over the expanse of his throat. “Would you like that, baby?” Eliot’s purr is like syrup injected directly into his veins, a sticky-sweet high he can’t get enough of. Fuck. Yeah, there’s a reason why they slotted into particular roles and pretty much stayed there. Eliot knows exactly what he’s doing, and Quentin… he loves it. He always has.

“Yeah,” Quentin breathes, the press of Eliot’s palm going straight to his dick, hips on the brink of inching forward, searching ( _wanting_ ), before his lower back tenses to curb the impulse, a self-imposed holding pattern of attraction and denial. “You read… the thing. You know, you know everything, that I like, what I want.” He doesn’t quite know what he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter, because Eliot’s free hand sinks into his hair as he tips him back for a rough, needy kiss and all the stress and strain that’s been building and building in Quentin expands and collapses in hurtling freefall as Quentin whimpers into his mouth, opening eagerly while Eliot closes around him.

“I know you like this,” Eliot says, drawing a line from Quentin’s throat to the centre of his chest and slowly pushing him back against the couch. Quentin stares up at him wide-eyed and breathless as Eliot slides into his lap, using all of his weight to hold him there. They haven’t done anything like this for a while, and Quentin’s blood is on fire, hands roaming eagerly over the muscles of Eliot’s back to pull him closer. “I know how bad you wanna suck my dick right now,” he says, pinning Quentin with a hungry gaze, eyes hard and glittering in a way that makes him ache. Like, yeah. He’s missed this. But. In the meantime he’s had _Eliot_. He’ll always have Eliot. Stupidly hot, insanely gorgeous Eliot, looking at Quentin like he wants to devour him. 

“ _Yes_ —fuck, definitely—” Quentin reaches for his belt, but Eliot pushes him back by his shoulders _hard_ and his dick fucking _jumps_ he’s so turned on and they haven’t even _done_ anything yet. Eliot shakes his head, dark curls falling wild and it’s like a switch has been flipped; Quentin knows exactly what to do, moving his hands—slowly, taking his time over it, framing Eliot’s cock, thick and heavy against the seam of his pants, as he trails his hands over Eliot’s thighs and stretches them above his head without being asked.

“You should tie me up,” Quentin whispers. “Sometime.”

“Oh, I will, baby. God, the things I’m gonna do to you…” Eliot sits up on his knees, manoeuvring them slightly so that Quentin’s at just the right height for him to slot his dick straight into Quentin’s mouth. _God_. He inhales rapidly to suppress a shudder, swallowing hard as his thighs tighten in anticipation. Pressing against the cushions with his arms, Quentin leans forward, trying to get his mouth on Eliot’s cock, but the familiar nudge of Eliot’s telekinesis holds him back. He strains against the invisible force, lips brushing the fabric of Eliot’s pants, the sensation maddening when all he wants is _more_ , he wants Eliot’s dick, hard and hot on his tongue, he wants to _feel_ it in his throat, he wants to feel it the next day, for the next _week_ by the time Eliot’s through with him. With a shiver, he thinks he probably will, as he looks up to find that Eliot is fucking _grinning_ , warm and sharp and lovely, fuck, his mouth is _so lovely_ , Quentin can hardly breathe.

Eliot makes a production out of removing his belt, taking it all the way out of the loops and dragging it over Quentin’s mouth, the earthy-sour taste of the leather slipping over his tongue before Eliot lowers the belt to his throat, pressing harder, the rigid edge of it scraping his skin like a knife as he swallows, head tilting back. It’s not nearly enough to restrict his breathing, but the intoxicating promise is there, a promise of burning lungs and static fluttering in his veins as he struggles for air. 

“Yeah, you’re gonna look so pretty with that collar, sweetheart.” Pushing Quentin back, Eliot bends to whisper in his ear, lips brushing over his skin. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard, baby, so deep, dragging you back onto my cock…” 

The belt forgotten, Eliot shoves his slacks down, revealing tight black boxer briefs with a very gratifying wet spot. A dizzying heat flares between them, Quentin unduly pleased by the effect he’s having on Eliot, who looks half-shattered, only barely able to keep up the teasing unattainability he’s usually so good at maintaining.

“Fuck, you should feel how hard I am right now,” Eliot says, palming the length of his cock and slipping down to tease over his balls with a groan.

Quentin, who wants very much to do exactly that, can only manage from his current position to flick an exasperated glance up at him. “Show off,” he mutters, but he can’t stop himself from smiling.

“Mmhm.” Slow, tantalising strokes. “I’ve got a lot to show off.”

Quentin lets out a little snort, but it doesn’t do much to hide the fact that he’s utterly mesmerised by the stretch and slide of the fabric over the thick line of him, his tongue darting into the corner of his mouth. God, he’s so fucking close, if Eliot were to inch forwards—a moan catches in Quentin’s throat as Eliot does the opposite and inches back, shoving his hand into his pants with a rough sound in his throat, his grip firm and steady.

“I could come just looking at you,” he says, voice cracked through with arousal as he thumbs over the head of his cock, the outline of which is visible through the thin fabric. “Just _thinking_ about that mouth of yours, baby.”

A thick wave of desperation drops in his stomach, his whole body now pushing against the immovable force of Eliot’s magic, a hold that’s as reassuring as it is frustrating, and all the more intensely erotic for it.

“I can feel you, you know,” Eliot says, squeezing and fisting roughly now, gaze cutting into him. “Pushing against my magic—mm, you do like to push my buttons though, don’t you? But I can feel how much you want it, squirming like quicksilver…” One corner of his mouth curls up, only slightly, and it’s devastating. Eliot lets his magic drop for a split second, during which Quentin lurches forward, finally getting his mouth on Eliot, but it’s not enough (could it ever be?), the hint of salt and sweat, the thin material damp on his chin. Quentin’s panting now, desperation spiralling out in shimmering fractals over his skin, hot and burning with need. He feels wild, feels like pleading, but with the unpredictable mood Eliot’s in, that could easily have the opposite effect.

“Yeah,” Quentin tries instead, mouth thick with desire and feeling slightly unmoored from his body, from reality itself, “should be pretty obvious, really, what I’m after.” The words are casual enough, but Quentin knows the look on his face must give him away, or perhaps the way he’s licking over the fabric, tongue dry but eager as Eliot lets him suck on the head of his cock. 

Eliot’s hands are everywhere; skimming his shoulders and sinking into his hair, nails tracing the line of his jaw, thumb pushing between his lips. “God, Q,” he says hoarsely, pushing the briefs down around his hips, a development that’s especially pleasing as Quentin gets the sense that Eliot was planning to draw this out even further, tease him a little more, and the very fact that he can’t wait makes red-hot arousal rush through the core of him like lava.

“Eliot,” he moans, hips working a slow, urgent rhythm. “Please…” He’s past the point of pleading now, doesn’t care if it helps or hinders, it’s all he’s got.

Drawing back, Eliot removes his clothes with a precise but hastily drawn tut. Quentin moans harshly at the sight of his flat belly and the tantalising hollow of his hips, wondering distantly why his own clothes have been left on, quickly deciding he doesn’t need to care about that right now.

“Go on,” Eliot says. “Put your tongue on me, baby.”

He mouths frantically at the thick underside of Eliot’s cock, licking a messy stripe down to his balls while Eliot jerks himself off, slow and measured once more. Quentin’s own cock is agonisingly hard, a sharp ache of desire in every twitch of his hips as Eliot moves his head where he wants him, pushing just the tip of his dick between his lips, those big fucking hands gripping his neck, his jaw. He can’t do much more in this position than swirl his tongue over the velvet-smooth head, sucking gently, and god, all Quentin wants is to get his hands on him. He twists roughly against the steady force of Eliot’s magic, arms barely moving an inch, enjoying the futility of the struggle.

“It’s been a while,” Eliot says. “Do you think you can take it, sweetheart?”

Quentin moans around his cock, sucking harder to convey his agreement.

“Yeah? You want me to fuck that pretty mouth of yours?” God, there’s nothing Quentin wants more than the slam of Eliot’s cock deep in his throat and when it finally happens, when Eliot finally drives all the way in, the movement ragged with arousal which only serves to amplify Quentin’s own—it’s like a blow to the head, a shock to the heart.

Eliot slides in deeper, tipping his face back. Quentin’s jaw goes slack and his mind follows. Sinking into static, cracked open and luminous.

“Fuck, baby, you always suck me so fucking good.” His voice gentle, distant, harsh thrusts punctuating the words, his thumb over Quentin’s cheek. Eliot’s praise a wave crashing over and sinking him to the depths.

Quentin can’t breathe. He’s been craving exactly this, the stretch and burn, the almost violent pleasure of being filled and fucked. He can feel it jolt down his spine, a perfect swell of tension spinning out, expanding and contracting like cracks on a frozen lake. It’s too much and he doesn’t want it to stop. Eliot’s cock, thick and hard hitting the back of his throat, the tenderness of Eliot’s touch and the unrelenting grip of his magic.

Eliot pulls all the way out, letting Quentin gasp for air before fucking back in. He chokes, eyes stinging with tears, whimpering as he looks up to find Eliot is wrecked, a shine of sweat over his brow, lips enticingly parted.

“Next time,” he says with a cut-off gasp that means he’s getting close, “god, Q, next time I’ll make you cry for me, darling, I know you love that, don’t you, fucking your mouth so good til you choke on my cock—”

Clearly, Eliot had read Quentin’s list more closely than he’d let on. Quentin makes an eager sound, thighs parted and trembling as Eliot slowly pushes into him and stills just as his cock brushes over Quentin’s throat. He holds Quentin’s face delicately, fingers fluttering lightly over his cheek in a way that makes him think Eliot might slap him and fuck, he _wants_ it, so much, wants the electric sting of it, the tenderness with which Eliot would draw back, the impact of his palm bright and aching.

Eliot doesn’t slap him. Instead, he taps a light promise with his fingertips, like he knows exactly what Quentin wants and is going to make him wait. Which makes him even hotter for it, just like it’s supposed to, and underneath there’s a splinter of aggravation; that there’s something Eliot could give him but is choosing not to.

Eliot gives him this: “You’re perfect, sweetheart.” Frantic, the sound shattered in his throat, and in that single crystal-clear moment Quentin believes it. Now, Eliot looks more than wrecked—he looks out of his mind, and Quentin is too. Probably he’s going to cry or come, or possibly and embarrassingly, both. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“You’re so good, baby, so good,” Eliot murmurs, stroking his hair, the delicate touch jarring his senses as Eliot fucks into his throat, hard, shuddering and groaning—“Oh god, oh my fucking god”— desperate noises falling out of him, face screwed up with such intense pleasure, thighs quivering as he comes in Quentin’s mouth. Breathing harshly through his nose, Quentin swallows it down, still sucking until Eliot finally pulls out.

Utterly ruined now, Quentin looks up at him, the urgency of his own erection becoming unbearable. Eliot kisses him tenderly, feverishly. Firm hands slide over Quentin’s forearms, still lashed tight above his head. “Hey, sweetheart, hey, I’m gonna get you down now,” Eliot says, soft murmurs as he releases his magic and gently lowers Quentin’s arms. Stiff and sore and shaking, he rolls his shoulders back, stretching his arms out at odd angles. Eliot helps Quentin out of his t-shirt, and then his jeans and underwear follow, leaving him trembling all over, shocks of dizzying arousal tingling through every part of him, his skin tender and oversensitive with need.

“You were so perfect for me, baby,” he says, cupping Quentin’s jaw, kissing and kissing him. He drags Quentin into his lap, their foreheads pressed together. Finally, fucking _finally_ he slides down to wrap his hand around Quentin’s achingly hard dick. He makes an embarrassing sound when Eliot touches him, a whole series of strangled cries that he can tell Eliot’s pleased with because he rumbles low in his throat, stroking faster and sending quick-hot sparks through him in a glittering wave over his skin. Quentin squirms, overcome with sensation, emotion, arousal—everything all at once, curling toward Eliot and pulling away all at the same time, gasping into his chest, biting and sucking and clinging as Eliot finds a new rhythm that makes his hips jerk in chase of his pleasure. Eliot’s barely doing any of the work now, Quentin’s fucking into the tight circle of his fist, wild and desperate, soaking up the litany of praise that’s falling from Eliot’s lips as he comes, frantic and shaking, teeth sunk into Eliot’s shoulder.

Eliot makes all manner of soothing noises, fingers threaded in his hair. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Quentin makes a broken sort of sound, nodding into his chest. He distantly realises he’s sobbing. “Oh god, I’m all—” He’s sweating, hot and shivery in Eliot’s lap. “I’m—”

“You’re beautiful,” Eliot says firmly, palms flat and grounding over his back. It takes a while to calm him, for the rush of endorphins to flood his chest. “That’s it,” Eliot soothes as Quentin goes slack in his arms. “I’ve got you, it’s okay.” He presses his mouth along Quentin’s wrist, teeth jagged on the bone, thumb rubbing circles into Quentin’s palm while his tongue lathes over his pulse. “I love your wrists,” he says, low and gravelled as though he’s the one who just had his throat fucked within an inch of its life. “I love your hands, all the fucking hair on your arms, Jesus Christ, you have no idea what you do to me.” He scratches gently along the soft underside of his arm, trailing to catch Quentin’s fingers in his, slowly bringing Quentin back to himself.

Eliot keeps talking, scooping Quentin up and hustling him into bed where he murmurs elaborate nothings in the dark, touching him everywhere, as though he needs to make sure Quentin’s still there.

*

Quentin glances up from the abysmal paper he’s grading—by very unfortunate accident, or rather, poor planning on his part, he’s accidentally left the weakest three students in his class to grade last and it’s doing very little for his motivation, already running on fumes by this point in the evening. Eliot’s at the other end of the couch, frowning and scribbling away, completely absorbed in his work. He’s been developing a cooperative spell, something to do with building foundation systems and adjusting for soil types over extended periods of time. It’s very complicated and therefore probably not a good time to interrupt him—but. It’s been over a week. Since they talked. And they haven’t talked since. Clearly, it’s up to Quentin once again. 

This time, he doesn’t have a plan or a checklist to hide behind. He sees an opening as Eliot snaps his notebook shut, stretching and sitting up. 

“Hey,” he says, intending to do a bit of preamble—how’s work going, hey so about the other night—that kind of thing. Instead, he continues with, “So, I don’t think, you know. If we were to do it—the other way. I don’t think I would want to be—not quite as rough? As you are with me,” he says, proud of himself for getting the words out, then immediately turning what he imagines must be quite a vivid shade of red as he realises that he’s given zero context or warmup for the discussion. 

To his surprise, Eliot doesn’t smirk or roll his eyes or use any of the hundred dismissive tactics he keeps in his arsenal. He looks at Quentin quite seriously and nods like they’re having a perfectly normal conversation, which, he supposes, they are. “I’ve been thinking about it too.” 

“Oh.” Quentin’s shoulders drop like a burst balloon. “Okay, so…” 

“Sit with me, hm?” Eliot says, clearing his work out of the way to make space for Quentin. 

Setting his grading to one side, Quentin shuffles to join Eliot at the other side of the couch, angling slightly to face him. “Hey,” he says unnecessarily, lips twitching nervously. 

“Hey.” Eliot smiles faintly. “So, that’s good to hear. Because I’m not sure I want that either. I wouldn’t say never, but it’s definitely not on the table for me right now.”

Quentin doesn’t know how to respond to Eliot’s candour at first, perhaps so used to being held at arm’s length. “The, uh. It said you had some prior experience?” A flicker of relief settles alongside Quentin’s nerves, for however embarrassing it had been broaching the list with Eliot in the first place (and it really had been quite excruciating), he’s reaping the benefits now, realising that it’s infinitely easier to reference the list itself rather than directly discuss any of the stuff _on_ the list.

“I’ve always had a submissive streak. You know that already.”

Quentin does know. Well, in theory. He’s got a sense of the basic facts—that in college, Eliot was in a brief but intense relationship with an older guy who pushed his boundaries. Eliot had told him about it pretty soon after they’d gotten together, when he’d been more open about his feelings and his past, eager to make up for his reticence in the throne room and the mess that followed with the monster and the dying and… everything. It’s not that he’s closed off since then, not exactly. But the barriers had certainly started to come back up over time. Even when Eliot had told him that things with Nic had gone too far or that some of it hadn’t been negotiated properly in advance, he’d laughed it off. Which Quentin knows is Eliot’s way of coping, but. It isn’t especially funny, that’s all. 

Eliot’s looking at him carefully, like he’s gauging Quentin’s response. “I know a little,” Quentin says. “I’d like to know more if—you know. If we’re going to do—anything.”

“Mm.”

Another sticking point, then. Quentin’s oddly relieved he’s not the only one with issues that interfere with all the uninhibited kinky sex he imagines everyone else must be having. Because, sure, Quentin can’t talk about sex like an actual adult. But Eliot can’t talk about his feelings like one. So, that must make them even—or thereabouts.

Part of the problem for Quentin is that whenever he tries to picture the kinds of things they might actually _do_ , his mind shuts down into static, unable to take seriously a future in which he, Quentin Coldwater, is capable of—fuck. He doesn’t even have the words for all the things he’s quite clearly _not_ capable of. Simply reversing their roles doesn’t appear to work. Eliot on his knees, gazing up at him—they’ve done that a thousand times. And there hadn’t been anything—shit. There had been no kind of powerplay going on. Quentin loves fucking Eliot, loves that he can reduce him to harsh gasps and soft moans—but. That doesn’t make him… a top. Not the way Eliot is. Eliot can make him pliant and shivery with just a _look_ , always has done, and he proved it all over again the night they did the spell.

Quentin is almost certain there’s no expression he could contort his face into that would make Eliot melt like that. It’s hard to imagine Eliot looking truly vulnerable—at least during sex. He can’t even think of a time when—oh.

Quentin flushes. Because he can think of a time, actually. Quite a specific one, in fact. It feels like something that must’ve happened in another life. He’d climbed the long spiral staircase looking for a place to hide, and from a distance, seen Eliot on his knees, head tipped back, moonlight slanting shadows across his face.

“I saw you,” he blurts out. “In the observatory.”

Eliot gives him a curious look. “What?”

Oh, Quentin should not be bringing this up. Eliot wouldn’t want him to know, surely. It’s hardly a happy memory, and certainly none of Quentin’s business. But it’s Eliot. He’s not going to let it go. “At Brakebills,” he says, as though there’s another observatory they’re both familiar with.

Lips curving slightly, Eliot says, “Naughty, Q. Spying on your elders.” He clucks his tongue. “So, you saw me putting some pretty young thing on his knees, hm?”

Quentin shakes his head, gaze flicking over the amused expression on Eliot’s face. “He wasn’t the one on his knees,” he says, as though compelled, regretting it instantly; the words themselves, too blunt and almost cruelly cavalier, but most of all their effect on Eliot, whose face crumples in pained recognition. It’s devastating to witness, even if it’s perhaps only a momentary collapse before Eliot pulls himself back together. “Oh god, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine.” How could it be? Maybe it is, because it doesn’t take Eliot long to regain control. “Go on,” he says, softly. “What did you see?”

“Eliot, no. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Mike was—”

“Not Mike, I’m well aware. So, I’m the one on my knees. What was not-Mike doing?”

“El…” Quentin swallows miserably. But Eliot’s giving him that commanding look, the one he’s helpless to resist, and so he says, “Not much really.” The angle had been such that Quentin couldn’t see anything especially explicit, yet the memory of what he _could_ see is sharp and clear as if it’d happened very recently. It wasn’t about _what_ was happening. Just, Eliot. Shirt hanging open, revealing all that tantalising chest hair, arms taut behind his back. 

It’d kind of blown Quentin’s mind to witness Eliot cede his carefully curated control, the way he’d gazed up at Mike, raw and wanting and _open_. Because he’d never thought that Eliot would _do_ that for anyone. It’d been a revelation, a new reality snapping into place. He remembers the almost feverish intensity of his obsession with what he’d seen, remembers thinking that he’d be hard pressed to explain to anyone the enormity of it. 

“He took his belt off,” Quentin says, faintly nauseated and sweating through his t-shirt, the damp fabric sticking unpleasantly to his lower back. “And he—well, he was just kind of stroking your, um. Jaw. His thumb…” Oh god, Quentin had forgotten his skin could burn so fiercely; his face might actually be on fire. “Like I said, not much, really. But…”

“But what?”

The lascivious edge to Eliot’s voice cuts Quentin deep. “It was more the way you were looking at him. I’d never seen you look like that before. And he—he was being so… gentle. With you. I hadn’t—it was all very unexpected. I’d only gone up there to sulk,” Quentin adds quickly. “I didn’t mean to—and I didn’t _stay_ or anything. Well, I mean…”

Quentin really needs to learn when to keep his mouth shut.

“You stayed a little longer than you should’ve, hm?”

“It was just… he kept stroking your face. Like you were—precious,” Quentin says, quietly mortified by his word choice. “And you were—”

Eliot’s expression is carefully blank. “I was secretly so desperate for any scrap of affection that I thought Cowboy Mike was the gentle dom I’d been waiting for my whole life. Martin Chatwin had my number, all right. He had me all figured out with his little honey pot scheme. Even if it _was_ technically cheating.” Eliot drums his fingers over his knee. “I like to think it took him a good few loops before he cracked me open, but let’s face it—the partying, the fucking around, all my bullshit. It was a pretty flimsy exterior. And there’s a reason he chose me, after all. That shit wouldn’t have worked on you or Margo or anyone else.” His jaw tightens, chin quivering. “I bet he saw right through me from the start.”

Frozen in place, all Quentin can do is stare at him in dismay. What the actual fuck was he thinking?

Eliot breaks the tension, rolling his eyes and patting Quentin’s knee. “Oh, darling, it’s fine. I’ve had therapy, remember?”

Quentin does remember. All the times over those long years when Eliot would return with the life leached from his bones. He remembers too that sometimes Eliot would come home from therapy and they’d have sex. Intensely, violently good sex, with Eliot hollowed out and desperate, talking and talking, telling Quentin how pretty he was, how good he felt, the words pouring out of him in a stream of consciousness that seemed to eventually restore whatever he’d lost. Shoving Quentin down onto the bed, looming over him, eyes dark and wild. Maybe Eliot’d fuck his mouth for a while, but usually he needed more—and Quentin was all too happy to give, sobbing into the covers with Eliot’s hand fisted roughly in his hair, nails scratching down his back while Eliot buried himself deeper and deeper in Quentin’s ass, every punishing snap of his hips bringing him closer to becoming himself again.

Quentin shifts, making a rough sort of sound and remembering that he needs to respond. “You—you are precious,” he says, thick and slow, the endearment strange on his tongue and much too earnest even for him, though the absolute truth of it is carved into his heart a thousand times over. “And you deserved someone who would treat you—properly. Not those lies. You didn’t deserve any of it.” He’s said it before in a different context, but it always bears repeating.

“I know,” Eliot says quietly. “I do know that now.”

Thank fuck. It’d taken a while for Eliot to get there—and Quentin knows all too well what that’s like—but he’s glad it seems to have stuck.

“I’m really sorry for bringing it up.”

“No, it’s good, actually.” Eliot shrugs. “Martin Chatwin isn’t the final destination, but he’s definitely a big hotspot, so at least this way it’s already done and we didn’t have to take the scenic route to get there.”

Quentin nods like he understands, but he doesn’t, not really.

Eliot seems to guess at his ignorance, looking at him gently. “It wasn’t difficult, is the thing. Yeah, he had the advantage of trial and error, but… I was an easy target. That was what I was most ashamed of. And probably the reason why that part of my sexuality just seemed… tainted.”

“You couldn’t trust anyone with it?” Quentin asks, sliding his hand over Eliot’s and tangling their fingers together.

Eliot squeezes his hand. “No. I couldn’t trust myself.”

“Hey, you know, we don’t have to…”

“I know. I… want to. But we should probably talk about this properly. Hash out what exactly it is you find appealing about the idea, and what I—well.” Quentin appreciates Eliot’s carefully vague phrasing and avoidance of words like ‘dominate’, which honestly, make him feel a little queasy, and not only in their potential application to himself. It’s just not a framework that makes sense to him, even as it quite clearly applies to some of the power dynamics they’ve played around with.

He wonders too what the appeal is for Eliot. If it’s simply that by virtue of Eliot having had such bad experiences in the past, Quentin will seem okay at it by comparison. Somehow, though, he can’t imagine that’s quite it. He also can’t imagine himself actually doing any of the stuff he clearly wants to. The acts themselves—many of them he _has_ done with Eliot already. But it’s not about that, clearly. Probably it’s more to do with what Eliot said. About accessing something. Quentin has no idea what that might be, but he’s set this thing in motion now, so no doubt he’ll soon find out. 

*

The first few times they experiment are wildly hot, if a little tame. For a while, they’re both hesitant in their new roles, with Quentin getting in his head about being in control of things, and Eliot finding it difficult to let him.

It’s odd thinking that they’ve been together for so long but they’ve never had sex like this before. It’s not as though he’s utterly passive in the bedroom—far from it. But it’s definitely always been Eliot who steers the ship, so to speak.

All the talking recently has been strangely helpful. Quentin always forgets the power of actual communication, how it opens unexpected doors. This must be what the websites meant by ‘creating intimacy’. But yeah, knowing that Eliot feels nervous about his side of things makes Quentin feel less like he needs to perform some sexy fantasy role, and more like—well, he’s still not totally sure. He just wants to look after Eliot, make sure it’s good for him. He knows he can’t undo what Nic and Martin have done. But he can certainly do better.

Part of doing better means that Quentin throws himself into research. He buys _The New Topping Book_ and _SM 101_ , scribbling copious notes in the margins. They’re both trying to access different parts of themselves, he realises. Something new for himself, and something buried for Eliot. And most importantly, that something is vulnerable for both of them and needs careful handling. For Quentin, letting go comes almost too easily. It’s what he secretly always wants, and what he’s had to fight against all his life. So, with Eliot, it’s a safe space to let go and be taken care of. This makes intuitive sense to him, but what he hasn’t quite got a handle on is what he _wants_ from Eliot. It isn’t really to dominate or have power over him—the thought makes Quentin feel vaguely nauseous, to be honest.

So, they’re still figuring things out. For a while, things are going so well that Quentin thinks maybe they don’t need to talk about _everything_. But inevitably, something happens, and he thinks that yeah, they probably really do.

They’re making out against the back of their bedroom door in the middle of the afternoon, which is indulgent enough all by itself, and then Eliot slides down onto his knees with none of his usual smirking nonchalance. Something about it pings distantly in the back of Quentin’s brain, but he can’t think why, not when Eliot’s hands are snaking over his thighs, and he’s grinning wickedly as he drags his mouth over the front of Quentin’s jeans. “Fuck,” Quentin groans, hands sliding automatically into Eliot’s hair.

Eliot pulls away. Very deliberately and without making eye contact, he draws his hands together behind his back.

“Oh,” says Quentin, swallowing thickly. Eliot’s grin has dissolved and he’s looking at Quentin with such raw vulnerability that two memories crash into Quentin’s mind, slamming into each other. There’s Eliot’s ironic detachment slipping away as he kneels and gazes up at Quentin, actual tears in his fucking eyes as Quentin so delicately places a crown on his head. And then, superimposed on the first memory, there’s Eliot, already his knees and the smirk has already dissolved (there’s no version of this where Eliot isn’t smirking, Quentin knows that much is true). Eliot is, as he always has and always will be, devastatingly handsome, the moonlight glittering palely over his skin. Quentin’s watching him from the steps, and somehow at the same time he’s watching from above; he’s Mike and he’s not Mike, thumb pushing into Eliot’s open, eager mouth, hand at his belt.

Quentin lurches back against the door, catching himself on the wounded look that crosses Eliot’s face, smoothed away in seconds because over the years Eliot’s gotten even more skilled at covering his tracks.

Eliot stands up in a fluid, graceful motion and the realisation spreads through Quentin like a sickness: of what Eliot was offering, maybe, and see, this is why people talk about things, actually, because he’s not quite sure _what_ Eliot was offering. Whatever it was, it’s been retracted, that much is evident from the thin smile he’s being given instead.

Quentin feels like he’s the one who fucked up. But it’s Eliot who apologises later. Much, much later. Days later. But he does.

“Sorry about the other day,” he says while they’re out on the balcony, sharing a cigarette even though they’ve both given up. Nonchalant, pushing smoke out between his lips. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“You didn’t,” Quentin says, even though he had.

“You looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

Quentin inhales deeply and lets it go. “Actually, yeah. It did kind of feel like it. And fine, I was freaked out. Not by you, just—I wasn’t expecting it. We should—we should probably talk about it? You know.”

“We probably should,” Eliot agrees.

But they don’t. Because it’s not as easy as opening a door once and leaving it open, is it? The list helped and they _do_ talk more. But things start to pile up in the doorway. Things like long days at work that turn into long weeks and months, or like forgetting his meds for the third day in a row, or like being hurt that Eliot’s too tired one night, then guilty that it’s his turn the next. And that’s just the present-day layer in this bullshit cake, it doesn’t even include all the murky layers of trauma and depression that lie underneath.

So yeah, they should probably talk, but it’s hardly surprising that they don’t.

*

“I forgot, okay? So what, I’m like, a terrible person. Fine.”

Quentin watches the lines of Eliot’s body tense and thinks to himself: that was me, I did that. Eliot draws in a deep breath and pushes it out slowly, but it doesn’t look like it helped much. He looks—fucking furious, and some not-so-distant part of Quentin knows that it’s not because he forgot to mail some stupid form (he doesn’t even remember Eliot asking, not that he’s going to admit that now), but because he’s being a childish asshole about it. That’s the thing about knowing someone—really knowing them, because you’ve lived with them for nearly a decade. When they’d been given the mosaic memories, Quentin thought he knew Eliot, but he hadn’t, not really; he certainly hadn’t known _this_ Eliot, who turns back to the sink without saying anything.

“I can tell when you’re angry, you know.” Quentin doesn’t need to see Eliot’s face to know the flex of his jaw. It feels perversely satisfying to know he can still have this effect on Eliot, someone who would prefer to remain unaffected by all things at all times. 

That satisfaction withers, only ever fleeting and always illusory, as Eliot takes another long breath and starts running the water. Dishes clink and scrape, but like, just in a normal way, because he’s just washing dishes like he normally does, and he’s fucking ignoring Quentin. The remaining vestiges of the pleasure he’d taken in Eliot’s anger are curdling quick and hot in his gut.

“Are you just going to ignore me, then?”

The clink of the cutlery, hiss of the faucet. Quentin feels like he’s losing the game he wishes he hadn’t started playing.

“Sorry,” Eliot says, not sounding very sorry at all. “Have you said anything I need to respond to?”

Part of him wants to press his palm between Eliot’s shoulder blades, thinks it might soothe the wild tangle in his own chest.

Instead, Quentin says, “You know I hate it when you do that—you _know_ my dad used to—”

His dad used to go silent whenever they got in a fight and it made him feel like he no longer existed, as though he was unworthy of even being yelled at. But, what? Does he want Eliot to yell at him?

Eliot gives a clipped sigh like he’s missed his train and it’s annoying, sure, but there’s another one on the way. A minor inconvenience. “Yeah, I know.”

“So you know, but you don’t care.”

“I didn’t say that—don’t do that.”

“What?”

“You fucking—” Another sigh, another missed connection. A flight, perhaps, something that can’t be so easily rectified. Is this what Quentin wants? “I didn’t say that,” Eliot repeats. “I care.” Yes, Eliot always cares. Quentin knows this, it’s a truth so fundamental to the structure of their relationship, to the structure of Eliot himself. Eliot _always_ cares and he hates that he cares.

Quentin loves how much Eliot cares. It should be enough to stop him from saying, “Well, you don’t act like it.” Because of course Eliot acts like it. He takes care of Quentin. He cooks elaborate dinners and bakes crusty breads. He doesn’t always know whether Quentin needs to cling to him on the couch or to be left the fuck alone to sulk it out—but it’s always one or the other, and Eliot’s always there, no matter which it is. He washes the fucking dishes and takes out the garbage, though not without complaint, but Quentin wouldn’t want that anyway. Taking out the garbage sucks. It deserves complaint.

Not for the first time, Quentin wonders if he deserves Eliot. This beautiful, sharp man whose magic builds things that weren’t there before. This man was once a king, and now he makes soup and bakes muffins for his socially maladjusted boyfriend. I’ve got him though, Quentin thinks. That’s never in question. Whether I deserve him or not. He’s mine.

Eliot’s ignoring him again, and rightly so.

After he finishes the dishes, Eliot makes salmon and asparagus with a honey glaze. It’s delicious. Like everything Eliot makes. And what has Quentin done with his evening? Failed to write the same paper he’s been failing to write for weeks now. Stifled the spectre of dread over his looming deadline. Picked a fight with Eliot for no reason at all.

Some old NBC comedy is on in the background, but they’re both on their phones, and is this what Quentin wants? Is this what Eliot wants?

He’s not even paying attention, thumb pressing and swiping almost at random. Skipping from his inbox to Reddit to the Notes app, absently saving a New York Times article to not read later, re-reading an email from Julia he doesn’t know how to respond to, liking one of Margo’s pictures in which she is, inexplicably, posing with a giant pineapple. Huh.

In the lapse of his attention, Eliot’s put on some stupid quiz show he likes. He’s all the way over on the other side of the couch. Eliot never comes to him, Quentin realises, also not for the first time. How many things has he forgotten and remembered and circled back to? Eliot never comes to sit next to him, but if Quentin were to slide over there—after shifting the pile of books and two pairs of headphones and bottle of water that are languishing in the space between them—Eliot would slide his arm around Quentin and they’d slot back together again. Perhaps, he thinks, their edges would catch, but. He’d hardly notice, not once his head was resting on Eliot’s chest, hand warm over his ribs.

Instead of letting himself sink into Eliot’s arms, the night slips by into their usual routines. Eliot’s got an early start and Quentin’s got an article to stare hopelessly at. The dishwasher needs loading or unloading or both, the plates need clearing and the laundry needs folding. 

Things keep moving, time drifts onwards. Their fight is forgotten or at the very least, not referenced. Which, yes, Quentin realises they’re not the same thing. But they might as well be. 

*

The next evening, Eliot calls ahead to say he’s going to be late home. First he offers to bring takeout, then five minutes later texts to ask if Quentin can order in. He’d sounded apologetic on the phone—they had, after all, agreed only last week to try and eat slightly less takeout. Which is one of the reasons Quentin finds himself rifling through the cupboards looking for inspiration. There’s a small roster of dishes he can cook reasonably well, but they don’t have enough ingredients to quite manage any of them. After some rooting around on the internet, Quentin decides on a creamy garlic linguine recipe he feels fairly confident he won’t fuck up. The key, apparently, is to keep back some of the starchy water for the sauce—yeah, he’s seen Eliot do that—and to make sure the pasta is properly al dente. That sounds right; it doesn’t taste much different to Quentin, but Eliot despises overcooked pasta and refuses to eat it. Whistling tunelessly to the epic indie-pop playlist Julia had recently made for him, he keeps a close eye on the timer, sampling his way through several strands of severely undercooked linguine in his efforts to ensure it’s got a bite to it.

It’s a few hours later when Eliot portals home looking pale and drained, the remnants of magical energy crackling in bright white sparks at his fingertips. Quentin leaps up from the couch to remove the stasis charm from the pot and plates up the pasta, quickly grating the parmesan he’d forgotten earlier.

“Holy shit, did you make this?” Eliot rests his chin on Quentin’s shoulder, arms circling his middle, and Quentin’s chest shudders with the sheer rightness of it.

“I did,” says Quentin. “And therefore I really hope it’s okay. It’s definitely not too late to order in.”

“It smells amazing, baby. God, you would not believe all the ancient Fillorian land ownership legalese I’ve had to wade through today—honestly, we’re trying to install actual infrastructure that the populace, for once not too idiotic to act in their own interests, have voted in, and yet we just keep getting—” Eliot cuts himself off. “Yeah, well. You’ve heard it all before.”

“I like hearing you,” Quentin says. “Honestly, Fillory doesn’t deserve you.”

“Mm, well. Anyway, none of that matters because now I get to come home to my gorgeous boyfriend and this delicious pasta. So, no complaints here.”

“I’d wait until you’ve tried it until you pass judgement.” They usually eat at the kitchen table, but Eliot looks exhausted and it’s late, so Quentin takes their bowls into the living room where they settle on the couch, and he lets Eliot take the coveted corner spot with no argument.

“Looks nice in here,” Eliot comments. “You lit the candles and everything.” He flashes a smile at Quentin that makes him keenly glad to have made the effort. Quentin’s pretty sure Eliot understands the apology for what it is. Quentin’s the one who says the word over and over until it has lost all meaning, whereas Eliot makes his apologies in gestures, big and small. 

It’s not something Quentin’s very good at. Anticipating other people’s needs and meeting them. But as Eliot sinks back into the cushions, slinging his legs up onto Quentin’s lap, he gets an idea. “Hang on,” he says, laughing at Eliot’s groan of discontent at being so quickly displaced. “I’ll be right back.”

Quentin’s idea is pretty simple, and he second guesses himself even as he’s giving the bathtub a onceover and deciding that yes, it probably does need a quick hose down. Once the tub is clean, he sets it off with bath salts and a generous amount of something purple and foamy he knows Eliot likes. Rummaging in the hallway closet, he finds more candles and the little speaker they put a waterproofing charm on that time at the beach. He fiddles with the enchantment for a moment, then puts another playlist on, one of Kady’s, sent last time he had that big panic attack at the mall and which he’s never actually listened to.

After swirling his fingers through the water and adding some more cold to even out the temperature, Quentin glances around the bathroom, wondering if he’s forgotten something obvious, then lets out a very undignified shriek as Eliot appears behind him, chuckling.

“Hey, baby. Why so jumpy?”

“I wasn’t expecting you to be behind me!”

“I do live here,” Eliot points out with a very annoying grin.

Quentin rolls his eyes. “I run you a fancy bath and this is what I get for my troubles, huh? A horror movie jump scare?”

Eliot’s fond looks sends a sharp tingle down his spine. “My permanently startled woodland creature,” he says, grin widening. 

Quentin sticks his tongue out. “You getting in, or what? Look, I put the purple stuff in.”

“I do like the purple stuff,” Eliot agrees, already half undressed, tossing his clothes into the hamper in the hallway. Before he climbs in, Eliot kisses the top of Quentin’s head in quiet thanks.

He groans as he dips his head back into the water. “Fuck. This is. Yes. Just, yes.”

Quentin laughs, feeling both pleased with himself and immensely soft, leaning against the door jamb to watch the dramatic amber shadows flicker warm and frantic over his face, a few drops of water glistening across his brow.

“You like the bath then?”

Eliot gives him a very serious nod, eyes still closed, eyelashes wet and dark against his cheeks. His foot splashes out of the water, dangling over the side and dripping foam onto the bathmat, and Quentin gets another idea.

“I could rub your feet? If you like,” Quentin says with a slow grin as Eliot’s eyes snap open. “Or if you want to be alone for a bit, I totally—”

Eliot returns his grin with a playful look. “Get the fuck over here, Coldwater.” 

Laughing, Quentin sits at the edge of the tub. Then, realising his jeans are about to get completely soaked, wriggles out of them, throwing them in a heap in the corner. “Right,” he says, rubbing the elegant arch of Eliot’s foot, “we need to go back to those hot springs again. A proper break would be good, yeah? I know you’re there half the week, but we haven’t been in Fillory together for ages.”

“Mm,” Eliot says, leaning back into the corner, one arm behind his head, the other trailing idly over the side. “Definitely.”

“Hey, I can get you some wine? That’s a bath thing, right?”

Eliot’s answering grimace is enough to make Quentin regret the question. He elaborates with a sigh, “God, yes. It’s totally a bath thing. It would be actually divine, but. I want it a little bit too much, which means I definitely shouldn’t.”

“Shit. Sor—”

“Don’t be sorry, baby.” Eliot fixes him with an affectionate glare. “You’re being so sweet to me.”

You deserve it, Quentin thinks, but doesn’t dare say. Instead, he makes tight circles with both thumbs, pressing into the ball of Eliot’s foot.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Eliot groans, and Quentin presses harder. “Holy fuck that’s good.”

Quentin carries on, pouring out some of the nicer shower gel from Eliot’s collection to massage more effectively, enjoying the soundtrack of splashes and moans as he moves on to Eliot’s other foot.

“You’re so far away,” Eliot says, his eyes fluttering open, soft and wide in the candlelight. “You should get in here.”

“I’m okay, sweetheart. I want you to be able to relax.”

Eliot shrugs, playing with the foam that's sliding invitingly over his chest. “I want you in here with me, baby.”

And whatever else would Quentin do besides indulge him? It takes a while to get settled, but once Quentin’s finished grumbling that the water's too hot, he leans back against the cool edge with a sigh, pulling Eliot’s feet into his lap once more. “Yeah, okay, this is pretty good,” he says, grinning and kissing each of Eliot’s toes, trying not to be too gentle and failing, or perhaps Eliot is just that ticklish, giggling and almost yanking his foot away. The soft look has returned, the one Quentin likes to lose himself in. Hands slipping over wet skin, pushing into both arches now, he can’t imagine being without this sharp, complicated, beautiful man who’s chosen him, Quentin, to make a life with, and not even for the first time. He rubs his cheek over the sole of Eliot’s foot, dropping delicate kisses along the way to the slope and dip of his ankle. “Your feet are so pretty,” he comments idly, because they are: pale and slender with dark grey polish that Margo must’ve painted for him. “How’d you do that?”

“Grew them myself,” Eliot says, lazy and languid as a hot summer’s evening. “You like, hmm?” They’ve definitely had this conversation before, but Eliot likes to hear it, which is good, because Quentin likes to play along. 

“So vain,” he murmurs, biting at his big toe. Eliot kicks out with a dramatic yelp, bubbles sloshing over the side. “But yeah, I do. And your ankles—they’re so delicate,” he says between kisses as playful as they are reverent, “the bone is so—I like it. But then, I like all of you, don’t I?”

Eliot hums, looking quietly pleased by the praise before sinking back into the water, eyes closing once more. 

He kneads Eliot’s calves for a while, a soft joy suffusing his chest at the intermittent sounds of Eliot’s pleasure. “I like your leg hair,” he says, almost to himself, stroking against the grain to make it stick up, then flattening it back down again. “And, oh. This mole right above your knee. How’d I forget about that?” Skating now over Eliot’s thighs, strong and toned and slippery, Quentin has to remind himself to keep things PG and sticks to the skin just above the knee, scratching gently before making his way back down again.

“Want me to wash your hair?”

Eliot’s answering gaze is one of smouldering reverence.

“Hmm. Think I can get behind you?” Quentin asks. Usually it’s Quentin who sits back against Eliot’s chest, the logical arrangement given their height difference. This way is, truth be told, a little awkward. It’s a big tub (magically enhanced), but Eliot is an actual giant, so.

He makes it work, though the position is murder on his hips and there’s no way Quentin can stay here too long. “Scrunch down,” he says, pushing at Eliot’s shoulders. His toes emerge from the water, the last of the bubbles sliding prettily over the wet skin. Quentin reaches for the shower head to get Eliot’s hair properly wet, working the shampoo into his scalp.

“S’getting cold,” Eliot murmurs, and before he can even ask, Quentin’s enchanted the water, barely having to think before casting, his magic as eager to care for Eliot as he is. “Fuuuuck. That feels _amazing_.”

Quentin smiles stupidly. “You’re amazing,” he whispers, thumbs dragging over Eliot’s nape and eliciting the shiver he was hoping for. By the time the conditioner’s rinsed, Eliot’s completely boneless against him, head tucked back against Quentin’s chest. He wishes he could savour it a little longer but—

“El, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I gotta move, my hip is killing me.”

Eliot snorts sleepily, which really shouldn’t be as devastatingly adorable as it is. “Arthritis setting in early, huh?”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Quentin says darkly, manoeuvring them out of the tub and wrapping Eliot in their fluffiest towel to dry him off before leading him to the bedroom. They dress quietly, both of them slipping into soft cotton boxers and Quentin pulling an oversize Star Trek t-shirt on, Eliot giving him the occasional adoring look that makes his pulse flutter.

“Mmph, thanks sweetheart,” Eliot mumbles once he’s curled around Quentin in the dark. 

“I’m so fucking in love with you,” Quentin whispers, brimming with affection as he runs his hand up and down Eliot’s spine, sweeping the hair back from his face and dipping over the curve of his ear. The words don’t need saying but Quentin likes saying them anyway. With a half-murmured sound of contentment, Eliot’s leg grips around Quentin’s, pressing their bodies ever more tightly as their lips meet, a tender spark that makes Quentin shiver with the thrill of being the one who gets to touch him like this; the long length of him, the warm weight and the honey-salt scent as they curl around one another in sleep. 

*

Quentin’s zoned out, staring past his screen, ostensibly working through a problem for his paper on the applications of minor mending to magical mental health interventions, but really, he’s thinking about how when he was younger he’d been so obsessed with fixing things. And not just anything would do—no, it had to be the big stuff. And yet, the more he’d tried to fix, the more broken everything had become. Various people had tried so many times to tell him—Fogg, Julia, Eliot—that it was enough to fix what he could. Probably, Quentin thinks, it's one of those things people can’t be told, but have to learn for themselves.

There’s a distinctive shimmer of a portal by the doorway. Quentin sits up and pushes his noise-cancelling headphones around his neck.

“Hey, you’re back.” He flips his laptop down, yawning and cracking his neck. 

“Yeah, hey,” Eliot says, heading straight for the fridge. “Margo’s got kingly shit to do, or she would’ve come to say hi. She misses you.”

Quentin laughs. “Did she actually say that?” Margo has become more demonstrative over the years, and Quentin is secure enough in their friendship to know that Margo _does_ miss him. He can’t imagine her saying it directly, though perhaps he’s doing her a disservice. 

“It was implied—she kept asking if you’re coming to the summer festival this year.”

“Oh yeah, when is that again?”

“On Earth time, it’s roughly the first two weeks of July, so you’ve got a few weeks to think about it,” Eliot says, his back to Quentin as he slices some of the homemade sourdough he baked last week before he—left.

“I’ll text her now,” Quentin says, picking up his phone with every intention of doing so, scrolling through the day’s depressing as shit headlines for a few minutes instead.

He looks up as Eliot sprawls into the big armchair, setting his plate down on the table. Now is probably the time to ask him about it. He can’t _not_ mention it, after all. Doubt spirals through Quentin’s chest as he tries to decide how best to approach. “So, are you okay?” he asks, trying to be careful, trying not to trip any wires, even as he’s cringing at the inadequacy of the question.

“Fine.” Eliot shrugs. “We weren’t close when I was a kid. I haven’t seen or thought about her in years.”

“Right, yeah.” That makes sense, probably. Maybe. Quentin’s uncertain, not having any similar enough experiences to draw on. “She was your mom’s sister, right?”

Eliot turns in his chair, muttering, probably looking for a phone charger. “Yeah.”

“Here,” says Quentin, fishing a charger out from his laptop case, leaning over to pass it across. “Well, I’m glad you’re back. I missed you.”

“Yeah, you too,” he says distractedly, plugging his phone in.

“Okay, so. Whatever you decide about the—have the arrangements been made for the funeral? Do you think you’ll go?”

Eliot looks over at him in surprise. “The funeral was last week.”

“Oh. What? You never said—”

“I’ve been in Fillory,” Eliot says in the voice he puts on when he’s trying to sound like he’s being patient.

“Right.”

“I wasn’t gonna go anyway, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, okay, of course.” Quentin tries very hard not to feel hurt. But he does feel hurt. He feels it like a black fog descending from his throat to his stomach. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Eliot looks over to the kitchen like he’s forgotten something. “Uh, I just did?”

“I know, I just meant—I mean, it’s like a week later.” Like an afterthought.

“Because I was in Fillory.” Eliot looks at him now, impassive, and Quentin wishes he could bridge the gap instead of widening it.

“I know, I just.” Quentin snaps his mouth shut. He’s making this about himself and he tries to stop, but the black fog is heavy in his throat and the words slip free. “I’m meant to be your—” Partner. Isn’t he? “Fuck, sorry. I’m not—I’m making this all about me. Sorry, I was surprised about the funeral, that’s all. I thought you would’ve wanted to at least—not that I’m saying you’ve done anything wrong—” Jesus, Coldwater. Stow your tongue.

“I know I haven’t done anything wrong,” Eliot says with a gratingly artificial placidity underneath which lies a palpable strain of irritation. “And you don’t need to worry about me, okay? I was with Margo, we hung out, got trashed like the old days.”

“Are you okay, though?” Quentin doesn’t see how Eliot can possibly be okay, but. He tries to imagine what it might be like. Quentin’s dad was an only child and he stopped getting birthday cards from his mom’s sisters when he hit sixteen. He doesn’t really know them at all, because he doesn’t really know his mom at all either. So, there’s not much to compare. Maybe a distant aunt dying isn’t really all that painful, actually, and Quentin’s making a big deal out of things as usual. It’s a habit he’s tried to curb, but one which requires the kind of self-awareness that Quentin is mindful enough to recognise he does not naturally possess.

Eliot had been gone for five days, though it’s not unheard of for him to extend his visits, especially when he’s working on the new infrastructure project. Also, weird time shit still happens. But he normally texts. Isn’t that the whole point of having interdimensional cell reception?

“I’m fine, sweetheart.”

Quentin exhales, unable to tell if the careless delivery is genuine. It bothers him that after all this time, he still can’t effortlessly and accurately read Eliot. He’d thought that spending nearly a decade with someone would gradually lay bare their internal mechanisms, that the intricacy of Eliot’s thoughts and moods would be, while no less complex than the wheels and gears slotting and whirring inside a clock, equally as intelligible, their workings decipherable to those who took the time to crack it open and look. 

Except, Eliot can’t be so easily cracked open, and Quentin’s always been shit at reading people. Julia, he can do. Well, mostly. Growing up they’d been inseparable to the point of insularity; the intensity of their friendship was such that their intricately layered jokes and secret smiles were theirs alone by choice as much as necessity. But now, Julia has Kady, she has new friends far-flung across this world and several others to make new jokes with, her lips curving into smiles he’s never seen before. This in itself is nothing new. Not since the onset of puberty, during which Quentin’s singular and obsessive desire to one day discover a Fillory portal had never wavered, while Julia had instead started going to places he could no longer follow. 

Julia and Kady are the sort of couple who have silent conversations with a quirked lip or raised eyebrow. He and Eliot are… not like that. Or actually, probably, it’s Quentin who’s not like that. Because Eliot can read him, can’t he? The times when Quentin has felt the most loved are when Eliot intuits his needs with an almost dangerous precision, thereby eliminating the burden of Quentin’s own self-expression. It hadn’t lasted, though. Or rather, it wasn’t as seamless a process as Quentin hoped. Maybe they’d grown apart. Maybe they’d had to, in order to grow up and back together. Maybe understanding somebody once doesn’t mean understanding them always.

“I’m glad you’re okay. Sorry about—” He waves a hand with no doubt whatsoever that Eliot can tell his own attempts at carelessness are entirely fictitious. “I just felt a bit weird you didn’t talk to me about it first.”

Eliot’s veneer of patience finally wears thin. “What is this, middle school?” His tone is casual. Maybe a little too casual. Eliot’s not as opaque as he’d like to be and some small, ugly part of Quentin is pleased to have eyes on the things Eliot doesn’t want anyone to see and greedy for more. 

“Hey, that’s not—”

A small sigh. “I’m allowed to talk to other people about things. It’s healthy, actually, you know. To do that.”

Quentin perhaps could’ve stopped the incredulous huff of laughter that bursts from his chest. “Oh, really? You’re gonna talk to me about healthy communication, El? You texted me like twice. You were gone for five days.”

Eliot’s face twists like he’s on the verge of saying something he’ll regret and that ugly part of Quentin that’s perhaps larger than he’d accounted for is tempted to push him over the edge.

“That’s not fair,” Eliot says eventually.

No, it’s probably not.

Quentin shrugs. Eliot gets up, pours them both coffee. They migrate to the kitchen table where the conversation dries up before it can become a fight. Sitting there opposite Eliot in the same seats they always occupy, Quentin can feel the weight of all the things they’ve never quite talked about bearing down on him and wants to do better.

“You said you had good memories of her,” he tries.

Eliot looks up from his phone, tucks his hair behind his ear. “I said they weren’t all bad,” he corrects.

“Right,” says Quentin, suddenly remembering why there are so many things they don't talk about. Because it’s fucking hard and rarely goes well. “So, was she—”

“Can we not, actually? She’s dead. I barely knew her. There’s nothing to talk about.”

Quentin wonders how much truth there is to that but doesn’t ask. “Okay, sorry,” he says for what feels like the millionth time, feeling as embarrassed about it as he is resentful. “I would’ve wanted to be there for you, that’s all.”

Eliot gives him a piercing look like he can see right through Quentin’s skin. “What, like right now?”

“Okay, don’t twist everything like that. You always—”

“Quentin,” he says sharply, “I don’t really have the energy to play the latest game of ‘you always, you never’ with you right now.”

His heart thuds. “God,” he says, “I don’t know what I’m—you get to deal with things however is best for you. Of course. I shouldn’t have just vomited all my feelings out onto you like that.”

Eliot’s nod is still sharp, but his voice thaws, just slightly. “Okay.”

“I’m glad you got to hang out with Margo properly. I know it’s been a while.”

“Yeah,” Eliot says. “Look, I didn’t mean to leave you out of anything.” He runs a hand over the back of his neck. “Or maybe I did, I dunno. Honestly, I think part of me was trying to avoid whatever this was.”

Quentin cringes. “Sorry.”

“Jesus, it’s _fine_. Or like, it’s okay. I _was_ avoiding you. I just needed a bit of space.”

“Of course. I’m—I was kind of hurt, that’s all. But I’ll take care of it,” he says quickly. “That’s not on you.”

“I appreciate that,” Eliot says, a little stiffly, gaze dropping back to his phone again. Quentin gets up, goes back to his research and leaves him the fuck alone, which is clearly what he actually wants. And isn’t that what Quentin wants? To give Eliot what he wants?

Later that evening, Quentin’s curled into Eliot’s side again like nothing happened. Which, it didn’t really. And maybe he ought to leave it alone, but—

“God, I was _such_ a dick earlier.” He nuzzles into Eliot’s chest as he says it, because Eliot smells as good as he feels, and because he’s hoping to mitigate any potential fallout.

Eliot’s fingers trail a slow pattern over Quentin’s inner elbow. “You were a little,” Eliot says, amused. “I know you just wanted to be there for me, baby. It’s not what I needed, that’s all.”

Quentin does a pretty good job of stifling the twinge of hurt beneath his ribs, the sour part of him that wants to hiss and spit: _I_ should be the one you need.Eliot’s aunt is dead and however he feels about it deep down is Eliot’s business, and he shouldn’t have to look after Quentin’s feelings right now.

“Yeah. That’s totally understandable. I want you to have what you need.”

“I know you do, sweetheart,” Eliot says, feather-soft, lips brushing the back of Quentin’s head so Quentin knows he means it.

Quentin slips his hand underneath Eliot’s shirt, making sure to avoid the word ‘sorry’ as he tells Eliot, “I shouldn’t have said that, either, about healthy communication. You were right. It wasn’t fair.”

Eliot’s hand freezes at his elbow and Quentin’s heart sinks. He pushes himself up so he can see Eliot’s face and—oh. Eliot’s not mad. He looks surprised, like he wasn’t expecting Quentin to say that.

“Thank you,” Eliot says quietly, settling his arm around Quentin’s shoulders again. “I should’ve texted you. I think… and maybe I shouldn’t say this…”

Say it, thinks Quentin. Please fucking talk to me.

“I think I just wanted a stretch of time alone. Really alone, without having to think about… well. Us. You. While I was thinking about other things.”

And well, the twinge is still there, but Quentin would rather know, and also, he gets it. It’s not how he deals with things, but neither is it so alien that Quentin can’t understand the concept of needing some space from your partner.

“I just needed to not think about anything real for a while. But like, that’s what I should’ve texted you.”

“I guess that’s not a very easy text to send,” Quentin says, half-laughing. “But yeah, something like that would’ve been—” Quentin hesitates, self-conscious, not wanting to take more than his fair share. “Good,” he settles on. “But I get why you didn’t and it’s okay.”

Eliot gives him an impossibly soft look, and Quentin can’t do anything but kiss him, hand slipping over his nape as he turns awkwardly, almost in Eliot’s lap. It’s a chaste kiss, or several, really, their breath mingling warm between them, noses rubbing as Eliot tilts back and draws Quentin closer. Eventually, Quentin pulls away to find that same hint of surprise settled across Eliot’s features like he’s trying to work something out. 

Quentin wonders if there are any parts of himself that Eliot can’t access, or, more importantly, wishes he could. If there’s anywhere he goes that Eliot can’t follow. 

“I know it’ll never come naturally to me, but I like to think I’m at least trying,” Eliot says, voice edged, rigid, but his fingers stroking languidly over Quentin’s shoulder again in what Quentin recognises as a nervous tic, a soothing mechanism. He recognises it because there are parts of Eliot he knows better than anyone ever has or will, and in that moment Quentin vows to do a better job of caring for the parts of Eliot he does have such privileged access to.

“I know, sweetheart.” Eliot is trying, has worked hard over years of therapy, will probably spend a lifetime working to figure out the basics of how to love and let himself be loved. He’s doing it. They both are—after all, Quentin’s hardly much better. “I’m trying too. We both are. And it’s—I mean, things are good, right? Between us? Or—” He takes a breath, laughs. “Maybe _I_ shouldn’t say _this_ , but. Maybe it’s more that we’re on our way to someplace good again. Together. By doing this. Piece by piece, we never solve the puzzle, right?”

“But we still try, every day,” Eliot says, squeezing him tightly now. “Every damn day I’m glad we’re doing this together, baby. That we’ve got each other.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, shifting down to put his head in Eliot’s lap. “Yeah, exactly that.”

*

Quentin yawns deeply as the credits roll on _Call Me By Your Name_. “Wow, that was… a lot. But hey, to think we spent all those years just eating peaches when we could have been…”

“Fucking them?” Eliot says with a smirk as he shifts his legs out from underneath Quentin’s. They’re sprawled out on one side of the sectional where they’ve been tangled up in each other for the latter half of the film, having gravitated toward each other in symmetry with the growing intimacies unfolding onscreen. Quentin feels the rumble of Eliot’s laughter against his shoulder as they sit up.

“Talk about missed opportunities,” says Quentin, grinning, “Did you like the movie?”

“I did,” Eliot says thoughtfully. “I was fully prepared to roll my eyes the entire time, but… it was actually pretty romantic.”

“Really?” Quentin sniffs. “It’s kinda skeezy though, don’t you think?”

“Okay, _now_ I’m rolling my eyes. I don’t think your outdated women’s studies module applies here, Q.”

“What, just because it’s two guys?”

“No, because he’s seventeen, right? What’s the big deal?”

“It’s just…” Quentin wrinkles his nose. “I dunno.”

“So, you _didn’t_ think it was romantic?”

“I didn’t say that,” Quentin mumbles. “It’s kind of uncomfortable though, right? Like, he looked _really_ young.”

Eliot shrugs. “I guess? I mean it’s his sexual awakening and all. I was more looking at Armie Hammer to be honest.”

“Ugh,” says Quentin. “So generic.”

“What? He’s clearly gorgeous. You have no taste.”

Quentin raises his eyebrows. “Do I even have to say it?”

“With one obvious and most elegant exception,” Eliot says, settling onto his side with a yawn. Quentin follows without argument, cuddling into Eliot’s back and sliding an arm over his chest.

Stretching out in the hazy afterglow of the movie, they luxuriate for a while in a warm, peaceful silence during which Quentin thinks only of the woodsy fragrance of Eliot’s shampoo, the hair tickling his chin and the weight of him pressed against his chest. Until, that is, an odd sort of possessiveness slips into his awareness. He tightens his arms around Eliot—perhaps protective is more accurate. And, look, he’s not made of stone—yeah, the film was romantic—it was _designed_ that way, the long-lost lit major in him argues. Eliot’s feelings on the matter surely can’t help but be unduly influenced by his own relationship with an older man. Yes, he’d been eighteen, but that was still so impossibly young. They even look a little similar, Quentin realises with an awful jolt. Though, Eliot’s relationship with Nic didn’t sound nearly as romantic. Really, he knows so little about it still. And really, shouldn’t he admit that his own feelings about the film are very likely influenced by that same relationship? That seeing Timothée Chalamet’s ribs on display like that had—

Quentin twists his shoulders and makes a small noise. That’s not a train of thought he wants to indulge. “Hey,” he says, nuzzling into the nape of Eliot’s neck, unsure as to what exactly he’s about to say and whether or not he should, but—piece by piece, right? And there’s something about holding Eliot in his arms like this that makes him feel safe enough to try. “So, like, I’m sorry to bring this up, honestly. But the, um. What happened after the—after we first talked about the Mike thing. And you—um. Kind of did something similar? To what I—saw? So, ah. What were you trying to, uh, do?”

Eliot stiffens. “I thought we talked about that.”

“We did,” Quentin says mildly. “Can we talk about it some more?”

After a beat, Eliot seems to relax a little, if not quite as at ease as before. “I guess,” he says, and Quentin tries to take this as face value rather than letting himself be put off. 

He noses along Eliot’s hairline, pressing a kiss there. “Okay, well. It really did take me by surprise, is all. I know I said that already, but I felt bad enough for bringing up the observatory in the first place. Those memories… it’s a lot. And also that I invaded your privacy like that, which is, you know. Not cool.”

It takes Eliot a while to respond. Quentin actually hears him swallow before finally he says, “I guess you did. I hadn’t thought of it like that. And, I don’t, really? I don’t know.” He exhales quietly, draining further tension from his shoulders. “Is it bad that part of me maybe kind of likes— _not_ what you actually saw—but, well, that you wanted to keep looking? I dunno if you noticed, but I was kind of always after your attention back then.”

“Only then?” Quentin teases, yelping as Eliot reaches back to pinch his thigh. “Ow, fuck off,” he says, laughing while he shifts to curl his leg between Eliot’s. “Yeah, maybe _you_ didn’t notice, but I was pretty into having your attention, too.”

Eliot twists like he might pull away. Then, “I don’t know what the fuck I was doing. I think maybe it was a weird flavour combo of me trying to give you what I thought you wanted—like, whatever you saw that stuck with you all this time. And also, the switching thing we’ve been trying—I thought, you know. It’d help you, maybe. To see me like that.”

It takes Quentin a moment to parse this. “Oh. But what about you? Is that something you want?” He strokes lightly over Eliot’s hip, hoping to provide some level of comfort without spooking him.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Eliot falls silent, and Quentin trails up to press his thumb into the meat of Eliot’s shoulder.

“Mm.” Eliot exhales deeply, and Quentin feels the weight of it rippling through the muscles of his upper back where he rubs slow circles, sliding up to tangle in the curls at his nape before trailing back down. “Maybe… part of it was wanting to rewrite what you saw.”

Without looking, Quentin can see so vividly the uptick of his left eyebrow, the distinctive purse of his mouth. Eliot’s not only upset by what Quentin saw, he’s irritated it affects him at all.

“Yeah, actually. I don’t—” The twitch of his jaw as he gathers his thoughts, another thing Eliot would prefer went unobserved. Quentin keeps touching him, smoothing over his chest, making sure to keep his arm loose. The last thing he wants is for Eliot to feel trapped. “I don’t like that you saw me, okay? I wouldn’t have cared if it had been anyone else with me, obviously. But of course, there wasn’t anyone else you would’ve seen me with at Brakebills. Not like that.” His chest expands and stills, heavy on the inhale. “Or, I dunno,” he says, suddenly sly, “I kind of like the part where baby Q has a sexual awakening all of his very own, playing the voyeur and witnessing a brand new side of his impossibly attractive best friend, a side he finds he can’t stop thinking about...”

Quentin laughs quietly into his neck. “Oh, I bet you do.”

The wicked edge that’d crept into his tone leaches away as Eliot carries on, “If it was only that part, it’d be fine, but it’s not. Even if you didn’t know it at the time, you watched me get played. He didn’t have to do any of that shit with me, you know?”

“I know,” Quentin says, a quiet horror sinking into him as he begins to comprehend the depths of the trauma he’s inadvertently raised from the dead.

“And like, how many other versions of me did he screw over? Fuck,” Eliot says, pinching his temples. “Fuck me, I already therapised the fucking fuck out of this shit. I don’t know why I’m still—”

“Because it’s trauma?” Quentin says, resting his hand lightly over Eliot’s heart. “And trauma has an annoying way of coming back to bite us in the ass?”

Eliot laughs. “Yeah, I guess that would be why, huh.”

“Normal responses to all the exceedingly abnormal shit we went through, remember?”

Covering Quentin’s hand with his own, Eliot makes a quiet sound of agreement.

Quentin, reluctant to disturb the equilibrium they appear to have reached, but equally uncertain as to whether there’ll be another opportunity to discuss it, says, “You were right though.”

“I mean, of course,” Eliot jokes. “But please, feel free to elaborate.”

“About my main takeaway being ‘new side to my extremely hot best friend.’ I dunno, I feel like I want to reassure you. That I don’t see it like—I’m not sitting here thinking, ‘Wow, Eliot sure got played’, you know? But it probably doesn’t help to hear that, and I get why you wouldn’t want me to see that part. Nobody wants to be seen like that, and you especially don’t like feeling… exposed.”

“I really fucking don’t,” Eliot agrees, shoulders tightening again, and oh, Quentin feels bad and he shouldn’t keep pushing but—

“So like, when you were doing that. With him. What did you, uh. Want?”

“Jesus Christ, Q.” Eliot has gone rigid in his arms. Quentin stills the hand that’d been making idle circles over Eliot’s chest. Soothing never works when Eliot’s hackles are raised, is in fact far more likely to inflame things.

“Shit. Um.” Quentin narrowly avoids the word ‘sorry’ again. “I’m only asking because—I don’t know, we’re still, uh. Experimenting? I think? And it turns out there are some pretty fucking huge mines I really don’t want to step on. And I don’t—I don’t want to be like him. And look,” he says, shifting up onto his elbow and sliding his hand into Eliot’s hair. “You really don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But I think you _do_ want to. So, um. If that’s true, then. Tell me.”

Eliot squirms stiffly, and Quentin thinks he probably isn’t going to respond—which is absolutely fine. More than fine, Jesus, it’s not like he has any right to Eliot’s trauma just because he unwittingly blundered into it one day and it’s been seared into his brain ever since.

But then, Eliot says, in a voice as rigid as his body, “Back then, all I really wanted was for someone to look at me—really look. And then not want to look away again.”

“You wanted to be seen,” Quentin says, unable to keep the softness from his tone as he remembers the day Eliot had asked him for advice about which shirt to wear for his date with Mike, his mask of invulnerability showing cracks for perhaps the first time since Quentin had met him.

“I told him about Indiana, you know. It must’ve been after what you saw, I think, but I did. I wanted him to _know_ me.” He laughs bitterly. “Which of course, he already did. Martin fucking Chatwin saw me, all right. Really saw me. And look where it got me.”

“Fuck,” says Quentin, swallowing. “He—he violated your trust.”

“Mmhmm.” Eliot sighs. “I know, baby. I fucking know.”

“That’s not—okay, you said it was partly trying to give me what I want,” Quentin starts, veering back on the path toward his own issues now, heart thumping uncomfortably and he hasn’t even said anything yet. “That’s not what I want from you, okay? Like, yeah, it was—at the time—hot. But maybe, if it’s something you need to—want to? Exorcise, or something. Is it?”

“Unfortunately, it would appear that perhaps I do,” Eliot says wryly. “I didn’t plan it, you know, that day. I just—can we put a pin in that part for now?”

“Yeah, of course.” Quentin shifts up to nuzzle into Eliot’s neck, thumb tracing circles over his chest once more. 

They fall silent for a few soft moments, before Eliot says, “So what was hot about it? Like, specifically.”

Huh. It’s a good question, though he’s a little surprised that Eliot would ask. “I don’t know how to explain it,” Quentin says. “I mean, hot guy on his knees is like, universally erotic, right?” He coughs to hide his embarrassment, then frowns. “But that’s like, obviously. Not it. I mean, you are. And it is. Hot. Like, incredibly. Oh, god.”

“Breathe, baby.” Eliot takes Quentin’s hand loosely between his. “But I’ve sucked your dick a million times, just like that,” he says, half-laughing. “Fair enough, my knees can’t take it all that often these days…”

“God, tell me about it,” Quentin says fervently, stretching his leg out so that his right knee pops.

Eliot turns in his arms, looking up at him slightly. He hesitates, like he’s weighing up how much of himself he can give. “So, what’s different about this?”

“Come on, it’s—” Obvious, really. “Yeah, you’ve sucked my dick a whole lot. Which, also, incredible, I might add. But you weren’t—you were always—” Quentin _really_ doesn’t want to say it. “In control? I guess?”

“Uh huh,” Eliot says, grinning. “You know, Q. It’s really okay if you get off on the idea of me _not_ being in control.”

“Is it though?” Quentin mumbles. He wriggles and turns so he’s in Eliot’s arms now, pulling one of the good cushions to his chest. “Hmm. I think what it is,” he says slowly, still figuring it out as he goes, “is that the observatory thing is my only real blueprint for seeing you like that. And it’s obviously part of this awful thing that happened to you. So, it’s hard to reconcile what I want with—that.” He pushes back against Eliot and grabs his hand, curling it into his chest protectively. “God, this would be so much easier if I could just have a normal fantasy. Something nice and _specific_ ,” Quentin says thoughtfully, mind set ablaze as he swerves from one possibility to the next.

Eliot laughs not unkindly into his hair. “There’s no such thing as a normal fantasy, baby. They’re all fucked up and weird. Hey, did Margo ever tell you about all the freaky tentacle porn she used to write when she was a kid?”

“Oh, you know she did. With absolute glee,” Quentin says, smirking at the memory. “But that’s like, normal, on the internet.”

“Yeah, but pretty weird everywhere else. See?”

“It’d just be a lot easier if all I wanted was to tie you up or spank you.”

“Well, maybe you should give it a try.”

Quentin’s brain stutters and grinds to a halt. “Huh?”

“I mean, this is some heavy shit we’ve walked into, as per fucking usual. We don’t have to jump right to the heart of whatever it is you’re trying to figure out here. Maybe we just… gather some more information. In a more intentional way. I gotta say, if you want to tie me up and have your way with me that’d be incredibly fucking hot.”

“You want me to… tie you up.”

It’s not really a question, but Eliot answers it anyway. “Sure. It could help with getting into the headspace, you know. For both of us.”

“Maybe,” Quentin says, dubious. “I dunno. It feels kind of weird to admit that I find it hot, the thought of you being, well. Vulnerable,” he forces out.

“It feels weirder to admit that I want that too,” says Eliot quietly. “I want to be able to be like that. With you. But also, just for myself again. I want that part of me back.”

Quentin wriggles back around to kiss him, unable to convey the depth of his tenderness toward Eliot in any other way than through the press of skin on skin, a thrill of electricity sparking hot and quick between them as their lips meet. It’s easy to lose himself in the rich heat of Eliot’s kisses, his soft moans making Quentin’s cock firm up against his thigh. “Fuck,” Quentin says with a shudder. “Are we—?” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking, but he’s already sitting up to yank his t-shirt off, drinking in Eliot’s appreciative gaze as his eyes roam hotly over Quentin’s chest. 

“We are,” Eliot answers, grinning and beginning to unbutton his vest.

The sight of this simple act stirs at something deep in Quentin, tingling like warm sunlight catching his skin. Very firmly and without really intending to, Quentin says, “No.”

“No?” Eliot’s grin widens, hands stilling. Quentin’s pulse is set racing.

He’s grinning too, suffused with the pleasure of expressing a need he didn’t know was there until it was already out of his mouth. “Nope. I wanna undress you. That okay?”

“More than,” Eliot says, eyes darkening as Quentin strips down to his boxers. He considers briefly the thought of relocating to the comfort of an actual bed but dismisses it just as quickly. This is happening, here, now. Eliot’s tongue is slipping over the rim of his ear and Quentin is shivering, letting Eliot draw him into another heart-stopping kiss. One clear fact steels Quentin, which is his certainty that he wants to be the one to expose every inch of Eliot’s lovely, pale skin, to claim it as his own with lips, hands, tongue. He knows nothing beyond this and the artless excitement of Eliot fully clothed and imposing while Quentin’s nearly naked—the usual way of things—but with the headiness of the new energy prickling between them like stars strewn across ink-black sky. Quentin’s struck by how much he likes the uncertainty of the intimacy they’re building, that he scarcely knows how he might shape or direct its flow.

Taking over from Eliot, he slips each button out and spreads the fabric apart carefully, smoothing his hands over Eliot’s chest and thumbing idly over his nipples, inhaling sharply as he feels them harden through Eliot’s silk shirt, the sensation going straight to his dick.

Eliot’s breath hitches, eyes fluttering closed, lips parted beautifully. Quentin wants to take him apart layer by layer, and he’s got an idea for how he might go about it.

“Turn around again,” he says. “Like you were before, so you’re—yeah.”

Eliot goes without question, letting Quentin loop one arm beneath him, the other crossing over his chest. He leans back, pulling Eliot against him, fingers dipping to the hollow of his throat, cock pressing with some urgency into the slope of his lower back.

He sinks his hand into the silk-soft of Eliot’s curls and sinks his teeth into the salt-sweat of his neck, soft bites that turn hard and frantic with need as Eliot moans, head tipping and hips pushing back, their bodies flush with heat. A familiar hesitancy curls in Quentin’s belly as he realises that what he’s waiting for, even now, is for Eliot to shift the balance between them. His lips would curve into that lazy, devastating smirk and Quentin would roll over for him in an instant.

“Okay, so, don’t take over,” Quentin breathes, dragging Eliot back by his hip, fingers digging to the bone. “We both know I’d let you, and I don’t wanna let you.” Eliot chuckles, and Quentin knows they’re both remembering a week or so ago when Eliot had switched in the middle of giving him a spectacular blow job, pulling off Quentin’s cock with a gasp and a grin, parting his thighs and sinking in deep to open him up with his tongue.

See, it’s nothing to do with the acts themselves—he’s always known that. It’s the way Eliot takes control like it doesn’t occur to him not to. He likes it and he’s good at it. But it occurs to Quentin now that there’s a part of Eliot that takes control because he’s had to. At one time it had perhaps been the only way to keep his insides where they belong.

“Hm, thought you were undressing me?”

Eliot wants this, but that doesn’t mean he’ll go easily. And why should he?

“Shut up,” Quentin mumbles, “I’m getting to it.”

He is getting to it; he’s getting a firm grip on Eliot’s jaw, and a thumb dragging over his stubble. He’s fighting to keep his composure, desperate to make Eliot lose his. He unhooks the buttons of Eliot’s shirt now, using magic to make the process a little smoother than it would’ve been were Quentin to rely solely on his own hands, clumsy at the best of times and now trembling as he slides beneath the silk to rub his fingers into Eliot’s chest hair. A soft ache of arousal unfurls in him as he teases and tweaks at Eliot’s nipples, his shirt hanging all the way open now, their hips finding a shivery-slow rhythm. Quentin’s cock, trapped and grinding between their bodies, is almost painfully hard already and he’s certain that Eliot must be—but he needs to _know,_ suddenly and acutely, and _fuck_ , yes, Quentin groans as he grips Eliot’s cock beneath his clothes, the rock-hard line of him thick and hot against his palm. He pulls Eliot closer, tipping them back so he can squeeze Eliot’s cock with one hand and pinch his nipple with the other, delighting in the gasp he pulls from Eliot’s throat, the way he arches into the touch, begging silently for more. Quentin gives Eliot everything he has; gives him the scrape of teeth along the curve of his neck, gives him two fingers to messily suck on, trailing over his chin and down to circle his nipples, pinching and rubbing the sensitive flesh to hardness, unable to quite believe the sounds falling from Eliot’s mouth—his low keens, soft and yearning are driving Quentin insane.

Eliot’s hips are shuddering now, both of them helpless with desire.

“Fuck, Eliot, I need—”

“What do you need, baby?” Voice low and gravelled and—softer, maybe, which is—interesting.

He grinds his palm flat against Eliot’s cock. “Take it out,” Quentin says quietly. Eliot gasps as he strokes himself over his pants, loosening his belt. “Leave, um. Push them down, but—fuck,” he breathes, the sight of Eliot wriggling to comply rushing straight to his head. “Yeah,” he says, almost dizzy with lust watching Eliot free his dick, slacks shoved down around his thighs. “Leave them on. Touch yourself. Slowly, yeah, god, like that.” Quentin sucks a line of bruising kisses along the slant of his shoulder, mesmerised by the motion of Eliot’s hand dragging and teasing over his hard cock, the flush-red tip poking out between the circle of his finger and thumb.

“Mm,” Eliot says, hand moving in languorous strokes. And then, here is it; he’s twisting in Quentin’s arms, eyes dark and demanding. “Kiss me.” A low swoop in his belly as Quentin tugs at his collar, enjoying the feeling of manhandling Eliot a little, gripping his jaw firmly and tilting him up, tongue sliding into his mouth for a filthy kiss. The angle is awkward, but that somehow makes it hotter, and by the time they come up for air, Eliot’s panting and pliant in his arms—or so he thinks.

“I could fuck you,” Eliot says breathlessly. “If you want?”

Quentin looks at him and sees the parts of Eliot that are most resistant to love and care.

“Oh,” he says, slipping a hand into Eliot’s slacks, wanting more than ever to possess every part of him; the downy fur of his thighs scratching through his nails, the curve of his ass beneath his palm. All of this and more. Anxiety is spiralling out of him in waves. He doesn’t know why. “That’s not what I had in mind,” he says, almost a question before his hand trails up to settle over Eliot’s ribs.

“Do tell,” Eliot says, settling into Quentin’s arms again, and it really shouldn’t feel as though he’s passed some kind of test, but annoyingly, it kind of does.

Eliot’s clothes are hanging off him, he’s laid out across the chaise looking half-wrecked, looking like all of Quentin’s dreams come true at once, and Quentin thinks about what he wants. He thinks that maybe now is not the time to think so much. The image of Eliot in the observatory flashes through his mind again and Quentin twitches with guilt. Not that. He doesn’t want anything that Mike—Martin—was trying to get from him.

“I want to look after you, sweetheart,” is what he lands on. “If you’ll let me?”

“I—yeah. Okay.” It’s not the most enthusiastic Eliot’s ever sounded, but Quentin trusts he’d say if he didn’t actually want to do something. 

He tugs at the hem of Eliot’s shirt. “Take this—do the spell,” he says impatiently, and Eliot laughs, but obliges, the magic coming easily to him in a way these kinds of spells never have done for Quentin.

“Just the shirt?” Eliot asks, a hint of slyness in his tone. Or perhaps Quentin’s reading him wrong. Perhaps he needs to learn to read beyond Eliot’s resistance, he thinks, rolling them over and pressing Eliot onto his stomach, their legs hanging off the edge of the couch. “All of it,” Quentin says, heat pricking the back of his neck, slamming into his own resistance now as he speaks even the smallest of his desires aloud. He nods to himself. Yes, this is what he wants: every part of Eliot he can get.

If Quentin hadn’t really considered where he was going with any of this, perhaps that’s part of the point. But it seems obvious now, where he’s headed, as he mouths over the bumps of Eliot’s spine, face burning as he thinks about saying what he’s about to say, and even more so when he says it.

“Spread your legs for me, baby. I wanna see you.”

It strikes him that Eliot’s said vastly filthier things to Quentin in the last week alone, never mind the last decade. Of course, it’s not so much the dirty talk that’s got his stomach clenched in knots (though it _is_ embarrassing), and more the having and expressing of desire that’s lit his skin on fire.

It’s worth it though, to hear the moan pulled deep from Eliot's chest, to watch him comply immediately, eagerly, thighs parting.

Most striking of all is that Eliot hadn’t laughed at him, and nor had he resisted.

“Oh fuck,” Quentin whispers. “Fuck, you’re so beautiful, El, like this, you’re so—”

Eliot’s shoulders jerk.

“Are you—?”

He breathes out heavily. “Quentin, I—I want to,” he says roughly, almost to himself. “I do, I just—”

Quentin watches rapt as Eliot draws his arms behind him, wrists pressing together at the small of his back. “Please,” Eliot gasps, a low and thready sound. “I _want_ to, just—I can’t—”

He remembers that the more Eliot wants something, the harder it is for him to let himself have it. Quentin thinks he understands, and so kisses along the join of Eliot’s trembling hands before covering them with one of his own, pushing not too firmly to hold him there. 

“Okay,” Eliot says, sounding calmer. “Okay, I can—"

He takes it all in; Eliot, gasping and straining beneath him, the way he’s _shaking_ , fuck, the way he’s letting Quentin love him. Maybe Quentin will never have all of him because maybe that’s an unreasonable thing to ask of him—or anyone. But if Eliot keeps giving, Quentin will take and take and—

He doesn’t waste time now, settling between Eliot’s thighs, fingertips teasing over his hole, rubbing and slicking him up so he can press inside and hold him there, revelling in the needy rhythm of his hips, the sound of Quentin’s name falling brokenly from Eliot’s mouth.

Quentin pushes in to the hilt, almost delirious, watching Eliot squirm and clench around his finger. His face pink and pressed into the couch cushions, his body an invitation.

“Before, when I said that I don’t want what Mike wanted from you, I got—I think I got mixed up,” Quentin says, consumed with desire and shot straight through with a spark of realisation. “God, you feel so _good_ —inside, you feel— _fuck_.” He looks good too, sweating and shivering, his lips parted in a strangled cry of need as Quentin brushes once-twice-three times over his prostate in quick succession before drawing back again to slip him another finger. “I got mixed up between what I saw—what I _thought_ I saw, and what really happened. It’s got nothing to do with what really happened—it’s what I thought I saw,” he repeats, swallowing around the idea that’s growing, letting the image flash through him. “That’s what—I want what you gave him. Not what he took.”

Eliot’s fucking back onto his fingers now in sharp little thrusts that make Quentin’s cock ache and his nipples tighten.

“I want you to trust me.” He slides deep into Eliot’s body, slick and messy with lube. “I want—to be worthy of your trust. And I want to look after you,” he says, feeling hot and fierce all over with the truth of it, “because it’s what you deserve. What you’ve always deserved. And I don’t think you’ll let me do that for you unless it’s like—I mean, the word _force_ doesn’t, um, seem super consensual, but—”

Eliot’s looking at him from over his shoulder, almost a glare, the low light cutting a stark shadow across his face. “That’s… that’s why you want—this?”

 _This_. The thing they’re not naming, that maybe they don’t have to. This thing they’re creating that might have been forged in trauma and pain, but which is now theirs alone to shape.

Quentin nods shakily, hand stilling inside him. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted, darling.”

Yes, it had been an act of love for Eliot to tell him what he needed and give it to him, but there was also great joy in finding the words for himself. In saying I love you and you’re mine and our time together will span decades, worlds, futures yet to come and pasts already lived.

“It’s what you want too, isn’t it?” Quentin already knows the answer; he always has.

Eliot’s hips are jerking a wild pattern against the chaise, his hole clenching madly around three of Quentin’s fingers. 

“You’ll let me, won’t you,” he says, frantic with need and determined to close the gap between what Eliot wants and what he thinks he can have. “I _know_ you want to,” he adds. “I know _you_. I think you forget that sometimes, but I do.”

He’s already so wet and open, Quentin barely needs any more lube, but he adds some anyway, stripping out of his pants and dripping it over his aching cock, groaning with pleasure as he positions himself shakily, sliding easily inside him.

“Oh god, oh _god_.” Eliot’s desperate moan brings some long forgotten part of Quentin into the light.

“I know you want to,” he repeats, he’s not sure how many times, dizzy with the hot tight wet sensation as he pushes in deeper, harder. Eliot’s hands slip to his sides, clenching around nothing. He dips to kiss Eliot’s shoulder blades, watching them ripple as he pushes back to meet every snap of Quentin’s hips. Takes one of his hands and threads their fingers together. Whispers into his slick skin, “I’ll give you everything,” and “let me, please fucking let me,” the words garbling as he drives into him. “You’re mine, my darling,” he says, ragged and shuddering.

“ _Yes_ ,” Eliot hisses, frenzied, as though he’s surprised to hear it. “Please, just—”

“Anything,” Quentin promises, squeezing his hand, kissing and nipping at his neck, grinding deliriously into him, their skin sparking with every point of contact. “Anything, darling, everything.”

Eliot’s back arching, his groans heavy. Sobbing and tear-streaked, his arm thrown up over his face.

“Hey,” Quentin says gently, “don’t hide, sweetheart, please, please—”

His body twists, throwing Quentin’s rhythm off, but he withdraws his arm so that Quentin can see his lips pressed together, eyes tightly shut. Quentin extends their joined hands above their heads and Eliot’s free hand clutches at his arm, nails digging in. Eliot makes an almost furious sound as he comes, hips bucking into the couch, Quentin’s full weight pinning him there as he quivers and clenches.

“You want me to—?”

“Stay,” Eliot says hoarsely. “Don’t—don’t go.”

Quentin starts moving again, mouthing over Eliot’s neck, nosing into his hairline. Hips rocking and pressing and stuttering, he cries out, thrusting in harder, the need for release crackling through him like a live wire. A sharp moan in the back of his throat and the spark catches in a rush of pleasure, body tensing and grinding in slow motion until eventually his limbs go slack and he drops, panting into Eliot’s shoulder.

They’re quiet for a while, repositioning so that they’re facing one another, mouths pressing in a gentle kiss. Everything’s sticky with sweat and come but for once neither of them complains right away. Eventually though, Quentin gets them cleaned up and into bed where Eliot clings to him, still quiet, but agreeable enough whenever Quentin checks in with him. He whispers a stream of pretty nonsense, cradling the back of Eliot’s neck and holding him near, pressing delicate close-mouthed kisses everywhere he can reach.

Together, Quentin thinks as he’s drifting off, they’re a mess of broken pieces that might never be whole, but that are instead slowly becoming something else entirely. 

*

Quentin pushes his plate to one side, belly pleasantly full of the eggs Eliot had cooked for brunch. He drains his freshly squeezed orange juice, slipping his hand into Eliot’s across the table.

“They were close,” Eliot says, dropping back into their conversation from earlier that morning. “My mom. And Elaine.” The sun catches a glint of gold-green in his eyes, and Quentin smiles softly.

“Yeah?”

“Mm. Elaine was one of the middle kids. And my mom was the youngest. There were five years—maybe six, actually, between them, but it was more like they were twins. I used to wonder sometimes—”

He shakes his head, gaze falling to the table. Quentin strokes his thumb over the bumps of Eliot’s knuckles and waits.

“I wonder, that’s all. What it must’ve been like. To have someone like that.”

Quentin’s heart aches for what he’s come to realise was Eliot’s profound loneliness as a child, a loneliness that perhaps he never really left behind.

“My dad was—it was classic abuse stuff. Not actively stopping her from seeing Elaine. But just like, making it hard for her. Making her feel guilty, like she was neglecting us. Him, mainly. Dinner on the table, shirts ironed—all those clichés.” Eliot sighs, fingers twining tighter with Quentin’s. “And she _was_. Neglecting me, that is. But that’s a whole other thing.”

“It’s an important thing.”

“I know. Which is why it’s weird that…” Eliot looks away, twists his hand free, knuckles cracking. “Do you think it’s weird that part of me wants to, maybe. I don’t know. Actually,” he says, grimacing, “the last thing I want to do is talk to my mother. Jesus. I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.”

“You’re worried about her,” Quentin says. Because you have the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met, he thinks. “Is she—does she have anyone else? Apart from your dad?”

“Not really. Or—I wouldn’t know now, I suppose. She never really had any friends though. Which I didn’t think anything of as a kid. Why would I? But now it just seems really fucking sad.”

“It’s not weird to care about her, you know.”

Eliot cuts him a sharp look. “I don’t want to care.”

“I know, sweetheart. But it’s okay if you do. Even a little bit. Even if it’s complicated. I mean, it’s definitely complicated.”

“I’m not going to call her,” Eliot practically spits, spine straightening. “If that’s where you’re going with this.”

“Um. No?” It takes a lot, but Quentin resists the urge to correct him, to remind him that actually, that had been where Eliot was going. It wouldn’t be kind, and it certainly wouldn’t be helpful. But what will? “You don’t have to call her,” he tries.

“I know that.” Expression hardening, Eliot lights a cigarette, then stubs it out. “Ugh, I don’t even want this.”

“Good,” says Quentin. “Do you—do you ever think about her?” It’s a risk, this question, but Quentin figures it’s worth a shot.

“Not really,” Eliot admits. “Not for a long time, actually. Not until now.”

Quentin nods. “I get that,” he says, though he’s not sure he does really. “Or maybe I don’t. I probably don’t. I‘d like to know. What it’s like for you.”

Eliot’s eyes soften. “Oh, Q,” he says, breaking into an unexpectedly warm smile. “I love you.”

“I know,” Quentin says, confused.

“You’re so—I just love you, that’s all,” he says, sounding almost lost as he joins their hands once more. “You’re my family, you know.”

“Of course I am. And Margo too.”

“And Margo too,” he agrees, giving Quentin’s hand a squeeze. Eliot takes a sip of his juice, giving a little hum of pleasure before he looks back up at Quentin again. He sighs, tilting his head slightly to one side. “You know, my mom never called me after I left home.”

“Never?” Quentin thinks guiltily of the thousand phone calls he’d dodged from his dad, or worse, the ones he’d answered only to make clear whether by his tone or the words themselves that his father’s attempts to communicate with him were nothing more or less than a massive imposition. He wishes he’d been more—he doesn’t even know. More forthcoming, less painfully self-absorbed. Better, somehow, than most nineteen year old kids know how to be.

Eliot shakes his head.

“How’d you find out about your aunt? You never said.”

“Lawyer. Just to say that I was listed in the will, but that there’s no money. It all went on hospital bills apparently. Cancer’s an expensive bitch.”

“Oh that’s…” Awful.

“I’m surprised I was listed, honestly.” Eliot’s voice is tight and low, with the smallest catch in his throat that makes Quentin’s stomach drop. Nobody should be surprised by that. “I wouldn’t have found out otherwise, I imagine.”

“You _really_ don’t have to call your mom. Jesus.”

Rueful, Eliot says, “What if I do though? What if that’s the grown up thing to do? Why am I thirty-fucking-four and I still have to ask what the grown up thing to do is?”

Because nobody taught you, Quentin thinks. Because it’s normal, anyway, that’s what it’s like and what it’s gonna be like from here until they’re no longer around to ask the question. But also, because nobody called you to bitch about their day at work or ask how college was going. Nobody called you and nobody taught you how to be loved.

Quentin realises he has yet to actually answer. “I think that asking that question is probably the grown up thing that we’re all gonna keep doing right up into old age.”

“It is, isn’t it?” They smile, eyes catching as they remember that other life, those other people who are and aren’t them and whose lives had been so very different but at the heart of it, had been muddling through the same problems, big and small.

“You also don’t have to decide right away.”

“I don’t owe her anything.”

Quentin makes a noise of agreement.

“I hate that I even think about her. Part of me hates _her_ and I feel fucking awful because who hates their own mother? Tons of people, I guess.” He laughs shortly. “You included, huh? But, I just. She didn’t even—it wasn’t even her who—”

In all of her not-doing, Lorena had done plenty of damage. “Do you think she wishes she’d, I dunno, done more for you?”

“What the fuck would that matter even if she did?” Eliot’s tone cuts right through him, but he doesn’t pull his hand away.

“Right,” Quentin says quickly, swallowing the apology that’s bubbling up from somewhere deep within, the part of him that would emit an endless stream of sorrysorrysorry if he were to let it. “Hey, what about something like—I dunno, it’s just an option. We could do something—less about your aunt, but like, me and you and Margo. To acknowledge your fucked up family of origin and all the complicated shit that comes with it. I don’t know.”

“What, like an exorcism?” Eliot perks up, much to Quentin’s amusement.

“Um, not sure how that was your takeaway?” he says, laughing. “But sure. Or it could be anything. Maybe also to celebrate us—the three of us—we’re your family. We’ll support you with this.”

Quentin can practically feel Eliot bristling at the very notion. But he wants it. 

“Just think about it. We could go somewhere, do one of those things that people do—go on a hike, fling something off a cliff, burn some shit. Those are things, right?”

The look Eliot gives him is fiercely tender. “Those are things, yeah.” He gets up then, and circles the table to kiss Quentin, soft, their lips brushing as Eliot’s big hands cup his face so gently. “You’re—” he says, kissing Quentin again. Eliot kneels, his tall frame awkwardly squashed between the balcony wall and the table. Rests his head against Quentin’s side. “Yes,” he says, clutching at Quentin’s shirt, fingers flitting over his ribs. Quentin kisses the top of his head, threading through Eliot’s hair to draw idle patterns over the back of his neck. “Mm, that’s good.” 

Sliding to the floor, Quentin wraps Eliot up in his arms.

“Okay. We’ll go and do a thing. You and Margo and me,” says Eliot, hazy and sun-drunk. They sit a while, growing drowsy in the heat of the afternoon that’s slipping by, in no hurry to be anywhere but with each other.


End file.
